Memento Mori
by ChiaraStorm
Summary: Traditionally, Halloween was a time to mourn and celebrate the lives of the dead. Grief opens barriers, and when Angela and John are both grieving, they discover things they didn't know to begin with.
1. Chapter I: Rosemary

Okay, this was a weird little project I've had rolling around in my head for some time. It's only a little fic, as I have six chapters planned for it, but this first chapter was borne out of a Halloween one-shot I wrote for a challenge at Astral Light. I actually wrote this in about fifty minutes, as I forgot about the challenge until Halloween Night and then felt guilty, so I wrote something and posted it almost immediately. Miraculously I still liked it in the morning, so I thought I might turn it into something longer. Et voila.

Oh, and John's first words to Chas are from the Hellblazer comic collection Haunted. It doesn't relate to Chas in the comics, but it sounded cool. Just thought I'd throw that in there.

One more note – I would kill for a beta for my Constantine stuff, so if anyone wants to volunteer, feel free to email me. Or email if you simply want someone to obsess with – I'm sure certain people can testify to my obsessiveness…you know who you are!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of the movie Constantine, nor of the Hellblazer comics, excepting a poster, a DVD, some well-thumbed graphic novels and a soundtrack CD.

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**Chapter I: Rosemary**

Traditionally, Halloween was a time to mourn and celebrate the lives of the dead. To remember them and grieve for them. To let them know that they weren't forgotten. To light the candles and say the words that mattered to a deceased spirit. To say the things that were important even though it was clear that they weren't anymore.

Nowadays though, it was just little kids roaming the streets at night and talking to stranger, doing exactly what their parents told them not to do the other three-hundred and sixty-four days of the year. The spirit of Halloween, the thinning of the veils, was just tooth rotting candy and a cheap laugh in a plastic mask.

Normally on this night, John Constantine ignored everything that was going on outside. People hiding their identities behind masks and begging people for food they didn't really need. No-one would visit his apartment; he lived above a fucking alley, for Christ's sake. No-one would come. He would quite happily get pissed or something, just as long as he didn't have to talk to anyone pretending that the supernatural world was just a joke that came around once a year.

What a fucking joke.

This year was different though. The bottle of whisky wasn't touched, and he wasn't at home. He wasn't exactly out socialising either though.

John stood in the graveyard. The scent of rosemary wafted around, even though there was no plant in sight. Rosemary stood for remembrance and honouring the dead. Ironically, it could also be used for exorcisms. Seemed like a useful plant to have in a cemetery.

Hennessy and Beeman and Chas. None of them deserved to die. They'd died helping and protecting him, and that'd been helpful in stopping the annihilation of the world, sure, but Constantine didn't want to think like that about them. He'd done this a lot in the past, letting friends hang for the greater good, but that didn't mean he liked it. People around him tended to end up dead, and to the wide world it appeared that he was pretty nonchalant about that. But he'd come pretty close to losing his own life not so long ago– about as close as he could get – and he could do with reforming a bit. You know, not trying to screw people over.

Long ago, when he'd originally met Chas, the first thing he'd said to him was "Hi. I'm John Constantine. I'm not the nicest person you'll ever meet. But I do my best"

His best had to be better than letting Chas get killed.

The grass was dewy and wet. A mist clung to all the rigid headstones, creating strange shapes in the fading light. The waning moon hung like a sharp sickle in the sky, cutting through the mist cleanly and elegantly. The moonlight fell onto Chas' gravestone, painfully impersonal with only his name and dates of birth and death, illuminating what was no longer there. The lighter he'd left on Chas' gravestone was gone.

Constantine made no move, nor said anything. It was his presence that meant something here, his physicality. It stood out in a place full of corpses. But more than that, he hoped that they could sense him there, know why he'd come.

John wasn't exactly big on mourning. A lot of death had happened around him, some people he'd known, some he'd never even seen alive. A lot of demons, a few angels who'd got out of line and screwed with the Balance. It was a lot easier, he'd decided years ago, to just shut yourself off and not think too hard about death. If he could, he'd like to choose the time and place, and die for something, not of something. He'd got that, both times he'd died. But his friends usually didn't get that lucky. They just died because they knew him and gave a damn about him.

Unfortunate for them.

There was a new aura, a new energy behind him. It was not hard for Constantine to discern who it was. He could sense her behind him. Her presence was honed elegantly, very precise, but not overbearing. It was gentle, but not insignificant by any means.

"Why are you here?" he asked her, turning around.

Angela said nothing, but pointed towards a newly erected headstone. The words Isabel Dodson stood out with painful clarity, as if the whole world had to know that this person was recently deceased, so they all had to be extra careful not to walk over the grave or some other superstitious crap.

Isabel's death was still so sharp, so clearly defined in Angela's mind. It almost felt like her death made her feel more of a significant presence than she had been in life. In many ways, this just felt like another of Angela's regular Sunday visits to Ravenscar, to see her. She had the same inexplicable feeling of dread that she always had, and the same almost sense of duty that came with it. It was almost as though her psyche didn't want to accept Isabel's death.

"Just thought I'd come down, you know?" she replied softly in answer to his question. "Just thought…"

Her voice trailed off, and though her demeanour didn't change, he knew that she was still broken inside. Snapping a bond like that, a bond of blood, magic and intimacy was like losing part of a soul.

Angela didn't ask why he was there, because she already knew. She could see the half-circle of gravestones, and the names on each one. They were all almost glaringly sparse to look at, each one with only a name and a few dates on.

Suddenly, the whole cemetery seemed twisted. The headstones, put there so that people could kid themselves that they were 'commemorating' the deceased, but how many of these gravestone had been tended to in the last few years? How many were visited? How many were even remembered?

Angela looked up, as if to get the thought out of her head, and her eyes locked with John's. For a second it felt like being back on the rooftop. So little said, but the whole intimacy, the sheer need to feel close to each other was there, with them.

She stepped a little closer. They were as close as they had been on the rooftop, inching closer still. Finally, she cracked. Angela stepped closer forwards, into his frame, her head in his chest with his head resting lightly on the top of her skull.

Grief overcame barriers, was a way into both of their souls. For a second, there was no noise between them. Only light breathing and the almost imperceptible sound of a tear falling without being consciously shed.

The merged entities separated silently, as though on cue. There was still no sound, but any sound would have been swallowed up by the mist. There was nothing to say. It was only mourning. That was an action of grief. Whatever way they wanted to justify it.

Soon, there was nothing but the mist filling the spaces where they had stood, clinging to the gravestones, touching it with damp fingers, embracing the gravestones as the moonlight illuminated the scene. The mist was tangible, perceptible, and almost corporeal.

Somewhere in the bushes, someone flicked a familiar brass lighter shut and put the smouldering clump of rosemary to the ground.

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What do you think? Please review! 


	2. Chapter II: Forgetting to Mourn

**Evelyn Valerious** –I'm really glad you liked it, because I always think I'm writing John and Angela out of character. Thank you so much for reviewing!

**TheDevilsDaughter2010** – Wow! Thanks!

**LadyHawke** – Thank you! I'm definitely continuing, even if I'm being slow about updating. Lazy me…

**JimmyNoName** – Thanks! Am I updating fast enough for you?

**Silverbloodrain **– It was kind of meant to be Chas (with the lighter, geddit?) but I don't think it came off that well. I was considering cutting it out, but I really couldn't be bothered. Anyway, I'm glad you thought it was awesome, and thanks for reviewing!

I am having a pretty damn shite day, and so I'm doing my best to do at least one thing right. Voila. Another chapter. In fact, I've been having a shite few days, and all of your reviews really helped. Thank you!

This one's more from Angela's POV, and goes into her past a bit, because as far as backstories go, Angela's was…non-existent really, so I'm trying to give her a decent background. I hope you think this is in character.

Oh, also, the title Memento Mori means 'think of death', or 'remember you are mortal'. I thought it suited the fic. Plus, it's in Latin, something most of my Constantine fics end up having in them.

Enough babbling. Enjoy!

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**Chapter II: Forgetting to Mourn**

Angela didn't go home right away. Instead, she lingered, searching the graveyard for something else. The mist was hanging like a veil over everything, a fine cobweb obscuring the

The grass crunched crisply under her feet, almost as though it was protesting against being trodden on. Every nerve was on edge, as though she was in danger, and her body had picked up on it whilst her mind hadn't.

The graveyard felt empty, yet haunted. Angela wasn't really paying too much attention to her surroundings though. She was thinking.

Just when she'd thought everything was getting back to normal, everything had gone wrong, again. Whilst she'd been convinced that Isabel's apparent suicide wasn't an accident, she'd had purpose, a sort of meaning that had pushed away any sort of grief. And then, as she'd immersed herself deeper into the supernatural world of demons and angels, Heaven and Hell, it had pushed any chance for grief away. The only time she'd properly cried about her sister had been in front of Constantine, just as she was persuading him to let her See. That wasn't exactly effective mourning, that allowed her to move on. Instead, she found herself feeling frailer than ever, and Angela wasn't used to feeling frail.

Now, here she was. Enjoying a world without Mammon ruling it, and demons crawling everywhere, pressured into taking a few sick days by Weiss, and trying to sort everything out. She'd done everything possible to keep herself busy, painting her apartment, sorting through old boxes of rubbish that she had kept purely for sentimental reasons. It was there that she'd found an old order of service for a funeral she'd attended years ago.

And that's why she came tonight. Not just for Isabel. For the other one. She wandered through the overgrown cemetery, her footsteps leaving no mark in the wet grass.

At last, she came to it. The gravestone, the other one. It was neglected, forgotten, worn and decayed like someone had thrown acid onto it. With green moss covering it, the words were almost indecipherable. A few words were exposed to the world though, and just one stood out clearly, as though it was illuminated from within. Dodson. Michael Jack, Angela knew the first few words were, as after all, she'd commissioned this headstone for her father.

She stepped forwards, brushing the lichen and moss off of the top as best she could, and kicking aside the wilted remains of a bouquet that had once been placed lovingly in front of the slab of granite. She had just about cleared off the top part of the tombstone, when she noticed it. The writing at the bottom.

_May he rest in he…ll_

She froze, almost unable to believe what she was seeing. Just seeing that, the inscription, brought it all back, Isabel…

Angela pushed away the memory, forcing herself not to think about it. She knew what it should say, under the lichen and overgrown weeds, but at that moment, all she could think about was what was in front of her eyes.

_Okay, Angela. Think like a cop. Don't believe your first impression. Uncover all of the evidence and then make a rational judgement. _

Angela constricted her breathing, trying to breathe mechanically and regularly so that she had something to think about. When she had convinced herself that she wasn't going to faint, she extended her hand, shaking slightly, towards the slab, intending to brush away the remaining lichen, but as her fingertips touched the cold stone, moist from the misty air, she pulled back without thinking, feeling like she'd been electrocuted.

Could it be something…psychic? The last time she'd had any sort of powers had been when she was eleven, and she'd just taken them for granted, not tried to see what she could do with them. Now, she had no idea of the breadth of her powers, and recently, anything like this, she'd been jumping at the tingle down her spine.

_No. This can't be. This is just a reaction to everything. This is not supernatural…_

How many more times would she have to say it before she believed it herself?

Angela touched the moss over the words, so soft, and gently brushed it away, uprooting it and letting it fall to the ground. The bones in her spine felt like they were shivering – almost with tension. Her fingertips felt so cold, and everything time she touched the stone she wasn't sure what she was feeling – her own cold or the harsh stone. When all of the moss and lichen rested on the ground, replacing the bouquet she had kicked away, she stood back, reading.

_Michael Jack Dodson_

_1948 – 1993_

_May he rest in heaven. Sleep well. _

There it was. Exactly the way she remembered it after twelve years. The moss had obscured the end of the epigraph, except for the last two letters. See, she told herself. Nothing to worry about.

Her task done, Angela sat down, not worrying about the dampness of the dewy grass, waiting in front of the gravestone as though she thought something was going to happen. She suddenly realised how emotional she felt, like she was confused and scared and angry all at once. She hadn't been here for twelve years. Twelve years. What had happened to keep her away for so long?

Why was she even bothering asking that question?

_Father Garrett read out the words solemnly, stopping to glance occasionally at Angela and Isabel, who stood side by side, separated from all of the other people at the funeral. The casket was deep brown wood, polished immaculately, including a white cloth thrown across the centre of it, with a small hole in it to allow the golden crucifix affixed to the top of the coffin to poke through. The hole in the ground was rapidly filling up with rain, turning the soil to mud and soiling the immaculate white fabric of the cloth. _

_Rain streamed down Angela's face, dripping into her eyes like shampoo in the shower. Her hair, recently cut to just below her shoulders, clung to her head limply, and she shivered in her long black skirt and jacket. Isabel, next to her, however, wore a much thinner outfit, looking strong and impervious, her thick curly hair, a little darker in colour than Angela's, still buoyant, even though it was just as wet as Angela's. _

_Angela looked around. No other relatives – they either lived on the other side of the planet or were dead. Their mother had died three years previously, from cancer, and their father had never got over it. Probably why he did what he did. There were others, cops from the station, sorry for their father's loss but not telling the twins what they were thinking; anyone who goes after a killer without extra ammo or a bullet-proof vest, well, it justifies their death. _

_She held Isabel's hand tightly, more for herself than for her twin. Isabel was already committed, not at Ravenscar this time, but at St Sepulchre's, an institution run by the church. Angela couldn't face telling her the news herself, so she had asked the doctors to do. Apparently she'd taken the news of their father's death well, no outbursts, no tears, no nothing. The news meant as little to her as the news that there was a fly on her window. _

_Even now, Isabel had the strange, faraway look in her eyes which usually meant trouble. Angela loved her sister dearly, but it was hard to cope with her. She was eighteen, she would be going to college in the fall. What would she do with her sister Lock her up, pretend she never existed? What could she do? _

_Father Garrett spoke on, his words barely making an impression on Angela, who was too lost in her own thoughts. Without warning, her sister's voice cut through the still, oppressive air like a sharp knife. _

"_He deserved it" Isabel suddenly announced. Everyone looked up, both a little surprised by her outburst, but not shocked. She was after all, the crazy one. Poor man, one daughter going to college and planning to be a cop, intelligent and rational, a credit to her father, the other at a psychiatric hospital, claiming to see demons and angels, oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…_

_Angela inhaled sharply, but Isabel ignored her and continued speaking, dropping her sister's hand. _

"_He deserved it" she repeated. "May he rest in hell"_

"_Izzy!" Angela said, unable to stop herself from crying or stop her twin from speaking. _

"_He burns in hell. Every bullet he fired, is aiming at him now…" Isabel raved on, her eyes unfocused, meaning that she was seeing something no-one else could. "He wishes he'd regretted shooting them. He wishes he'd cared more now. He wishes…But the First of the Fallen cares not. He's watching him, feeling satisfied, feeling fulfilled…"_

_Father Garrett stepped forwards, trying to soothe Isabel. There was a scream in Angela's head and it wasn't going away. She had to escape from this, this moment, this life. _

_She wheeled away, needing to get out of there, get away, far away. She was never coming back here, she never wanted to be reminded of this moment…_

Tears cooled on her cheeks as Angela remembered. It had all happened her. She hadn't seen Isabel after that until she came back from college, and then she was different. She didn't talk to anyone at all. It took Angela a long time to rebuild some form of trust with her sister and coax her to talk again. If only she hadn't stormed away…

She gave up, and cried, full sobs that heaved through her body and made her curl up protectively in a ball, hugging her knees tightly. Every single knotted ounce of pain, sadness and regret that she had squashed down and repressed came out in a flood of salt water. She had no idea how long she sat there, and she seemed to pass out of time, just sitting there, mourning in the only way humans know how.

A hand laid itself on her shoulder. Angela suppressed a jump; she hadn't even sensed anyone coming, and considering that she was a psychic, that didn't happen a lot. There was only one person who it could be, only one person who could get the jump on her, and she'd seen him here, so her logical cop's mind said that it was most likely him.

"Thought you'd gone" she said, the words coming out more calmly than she'd thought she could manage at the moment. She wasn't the sort to cry, at least, not in public. She'd seen some pretty horrendous things as a cop, but she'd never let any of them affect her. She just acted as cold as ice and when she got home, when she was alone and all of her work was done, she maybe allowed one tear to fall onto the cold pillow next to her.

There was no reply.

Angela turned around, ready to face John, deal with whatever he was there for. After all, he'd seen her crying over her sister, possessed by the fucking son of Satan for Christ's sake, and looking like an entrant into the Californian Wet T-shirt Contest. If he was going to be sarcastic about her crying at her fucking father's grave, then he had another thing coming. She turned, suddenly, expecting to see him standing there chomping on that irritating gum.

But, there was no-one there behind her.

Angela looked in every direction, but there was no-on near her.

Then whose hand was it on her shoulder?

Part of her wanted to believe that it was Isabel. Part of her wanted to believe that it was her father. And another part of her just wanted to go home, get in the shower and wash the dewy wetness and rosemary smoke off of herself.

However much she wanted to believe that first two, there was no denying that she was alone in the graveyard, except for her memories.

With a sigh she stood up, and walked out, back into reality.

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Any comments? Please review! By the way, I should be updating pretty soon, but I have mocks, so if I disappear, don't panic! 


	3. Chapter III: Atonement

**LadyOfThieves –** Lost doesn't creep you out? I adore that show, but all the creepy numbers are terrifying. The only thing with scarier numbers is the Matrix! Yes, I'm obsessed…

**Lovely –** Oh good, I aim to please! I love writing creepy stuff, but it never seems to come off that well. I'm glad this did though! Thanks for reviewing!

**Starscar –** I think so too, but then again, I'm biased! I love the graveyard scene, John/Angela…ah, one of my top three couples (you can tell I think about this a lot, can't you?)

Yay! I finally worked out how to insert a link to my LiveJournal into my profile! Go check it out, I talk plenty of crap, but I like to hear from my readers, so feel free to leave a comment.

I haven't had time to properly check this chapter over, so I apologise for any mistakes. I actually quite like this chapter, but it does delve into some religious-y stuff, so if you're liable to be offended, don't read. You have been warned!

Ah! I'm severely scared about my mocks next week. Seriously. I feel pretty terrified, and I don't scare easily. Please, retain my sanity and review! A review can pull me out of my spiral of depression more effectively than chocolate, and that's saying something…

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**Chapter III: Atonement **

Angela walked through the mist, feeling shrouded by it. In a strange way, it felt almost refreshing to revisit her old memories, both of her sister and her father, but it also made her feel absolutely exhausted, wrung out by her emotions. Thankfully her apartment wasn't far away, otherwise she'd have called a cab. She'd been in the police force too long not to see how many muggings and rapes and all sorts of crimes could have been prevented if the victims had paid a few bucks more and taken a safe route home. And there was no part of Angela Dodson that ever wanted to be a victim.

Her soft shoes made no noise as she walked, feeling the rough concrete through the soles. It was a shock to the system, a wake up call when she left the wet, cushioning grass of the graveyard and stepped onto the pavement. It was like she had to leave her memories behind her when she closed the iron gate.

The night was a dark blue, almost black, only bluish around the golden edges of the sickle moon that hung in the sky perfectly, like some part of the grand design. Somehow it made Angela feel less alone, looking up at the moon.

No matter what happened to her, some things didn't change.

A neon light from a random bar on a side-street flared fluorescent pink, cutting through the mist like a blatant knife. Despite neon lights being a sign of people and business, somehow they always conveyed a sense of abandonment to Angela. Like people just forgot to turn the lights off, and no-one was really home.

Still, this was home.

She'd always lived in LA. When she was a kid, it was because her dad was with the police force, and he liked it here too much to move. And then, when Isabel was committed, and her parents died, she hadn't wanted to move away. Well, that was a lie. After her father had died, and she was at college, she'd never wanted to return. There was a whole world out there, and Angela could finally get away from it all, the mental institutions, the futile, one-sided conversation with her mute sister, and the endless meetings with accountants just to sort out her and Izzy's inheritances from their parents. She could be free. She could escape, spread her wings and fly away…

But no. She was Angela Dodson, the good little Catholic girl who always coped with what life threw at her, who everyone assumed could cope, who no-one ever asked if she was alright, because she just naturally got on with matters, didn't complain and of course, prayed every night, thanking God for her blessings.

Except that was all a lie. When she was about to leave home, when she was eighteen, everything had fallen apart. She'd lost her parents, Isabel never spoke to anyone, a phase that lasted a little over three years, something they thought she'd got over since she was ten, when she hadn't uttered a sound for almost a year, and Angela suddenly had to worry about bills and money and the necessities of life that she'd always taken for granted, and still try to cope with her grief. It was impossible.

Everything had seemed to go to wrong there. Angela had literally struggled alone for a month, trying to keep up some semblance of normality, when without warning, she'd just stopped, hands wet and wrinkly from doing dishes, she'd started to cry. She'd thought that as soon as her father was in the ground and everyone else had forgotten, the pain would dissipate, but it just festered and lurked in the dark, and then jumped out to surprise her.

It had only gotten worse. For so long, Angela had been angry, at Isabel for not being there for her and for not suffering like Angela was, at her father for dying and letting all of this happen, and at God for letting her languish in this torment.

_Why?_ She used to ask Father Garrett every time she was in the confessional booth. _Why does God abandon me now?_

After a few months, she decided to do the same. Right. Two can play at that game. And just like that, an instant decision made in a moment of anger and passion, God was cut out of her life, as though he'd never been there to begin with.

It was amazing, how easy it was. But as Angela lay in bed at night, somehow feeling like she couldn't get to sleep because she hadn't prayed, something that had been part of her evening routine for as long as she could remember, she realised that nothing was different. If praying to God had brought her nothing but bad luck and a feeling of spiritual abandonment, then stopping believing and cutting Him out of her life entirely had done nothing different, except that she felt even more alone and lonely than she had before.

Better to be damned and feel like you've done something to prevent it.

As time went by, her faith had returned, and though it had been hard, it was supportive, especially when at times she felt so detached from everything. She calmly went to her job, ready and prepared to kill people, visited her sister who barely recognised her regular as clockwork, and then came back to her sister's cat and an empty apartment. It was comforting to know that there was a place for her, a haven for her.

Angela suddenly froze in her tracks, hearing a metallic sound behind her. She'd been so caught up in her memories that she hadn't heard it, the object moving behind her. Too big to be a stray cat, her cop's brain summarised quickly, and too organised.

Only one conclusion; something was following her.

Quickly, like a reflex reaction, she began to run, finding her feet once again. At the worst, this was a mistake and she'd just look foolish running like a madwoman through the streets of Los Angeles, but quite frankly, she had given up caring about looking stupid right now.

A sudden movement behind her told her that she'd been right to run; the thing, whatever it was, had started chasing her. She put on a burst of extra speed, diving across the road and severely pissing off the driver of a red sporty convertible, who let his middle finger do the talking for him.

Angela barely noticed as she darted across the road, almost running into some late-night trick-or-treaters and ran down one of the streets near it, taking a little-used route towards her apartment complex. As she ran, she tried to sense the object, feel it psychically, but she required concentration to do that, and whilst she was running around LA, she couldn't afford to stop and meditate. She could hear it though, as it chased her.

It was all around her, the echoing of footsteps to her left, hoarse breathing to her right, the flapping of clothes directly above her.

_No – wait – that isn't possible…_

Her mind tried to make her stop, find out what was going on, solve the mystery, play the detective, but Angela's body kept her moving.

Still, she couldn't resist just looking over her shoulder, just one little peek, just to see what she was running from…

The concrete kissed her cheek with a bang as she tripped over someone's discarded binbag, obviously forgotten about for too long. Her whole side ached from the sudden and brutal contact with the ground. _Stupid mistake_, she chided herself. You don't turn around. You don't look back. You focus on what's ahead of you rather than what's behind you.

It was a stupid mistake, and now she was going to be paying for it.

Her fingers clawed for the ever-present gun at her side, but she couldn't get a hold on it before a hand was put over her mouth, and another hand scrabbled for her purse.

Angela struggled, trying to break his hold on her, but she was in an awkward position, and she couldn't get free. She quickly took stock of her situation. Her assailant probably outweighed her by fifty pounds, he was using his body weight to keep her pinned down, she couldn't reach her gun, and he appeared to only be interested in the contents of her person.

So it was fairly safe to assume that he was human.

Then she saw a red light flare in his eyes, and she changed her mind. That was why she'd used the qualifier 'fairly'.

She resisted more violently, but the half-breed looked at her, and it was like a weight descended on her mind, like someone was using a sledgehammer to crack into her brain. She cried out, and as soon as her limbs fell passively, the pain disappeared, and the demon turned back to her purse.

Though Angela's mind was aching and sore, her thoughts were fast and erratic, the main one being _Why would a demon possess some poor guy just to steal my purse?_ _And what in hell did he just do to me?_

Then she remembered. The purse…she'd used it that night on the rooftop, to carry the Spear of Destiny in. The thing probably reeked with the dregs of a spiritual object. If she got out of this in one piece, she'd take it home and burn it.

An idea sprung into her head. Do possessed humans feel pain? If they did, she could use that to her advantage. She was willing to bet that the demon inside wouldn't be banking on that.

The half-breed howled, realising that the Spear wasn't there. He threw his head back, and whilst he was blinded, Angela's foot shot outwards, hitting the mugger in sensitive parts of his anatomy. He buckled, his hold on her slipping, and she took advantage of the moment. She wriggled out of his hold, and reached for her gun before remembering how pointless that was. Instead, she ran, leaving the half-breed behind with the scattered contents of her tan-coloured purse.

She ran through the streets, using some of the shortcuts and secret paths she'd learnt growing up here. It was a battle between her higher brain telling her to stay with people and her lower brain just wanting to out as much distance as possible between that thing and herself, and her lower brain won just barely. She counted the blocks as she ran, just trying to get some sort of focus and concentration back into her brain, which still ached and pained from the demon's invasive contact.

Angela rounded the corner of the twelfth block, and then forced herself to stop and breathe. When she'd been a junior cop, she'd made herself faint by running for longer than she really could. She knew she had more stamina now, but she'd sense it if the half-breed came close. Her psychic sense worked like a burglar alarm or a tripwire; if something demonic came into her range, she'd know about it.

She took in gulps of refreshingly sweet-tasting air, which she knew, it being Los Angeles, was unlikely but at that moment, it felt sweeter than anything else she'd ever breathed in.

Leaning against the brick wall, she felt her lungs inflate and deflate regularly, soothing her body and her pounding heart. She played with a strand of her dark hair, thinking. Could she keep the demons away? Isabel had been the psychic, not her. She doubted whether she could be as strong as her sister. Despite her Catholic feelings that suicide was a sin, her sister had taken her life for the greater good, to keep the word safe. Surely that was strong?

Sighing, Angela stood upright and started to walk down the street. On the other side of the road, kids poured out of a 7-11, clutching cans of beer and wearing garish plastic masks that were practically luminous in the darkness of the night. Half of them would probably be at the hospital tomorrow, the other half at the station. Normally, Angela would have a private inner rant about police time being wasted by drunken idiots, but at that moment, she couldn't even summon up one feeling. She felt neutral, without emotion or purpose.

She'd never felt more detached from this world.

There was only one person in the world who could understand what she was feeling right now.

Angela turned around and started to walk away, heading down a familiar route towards a familiar apartment.

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I'll give you three guesses where she's going, and the first two don't count…Some quite fluffy John/Angela stuff next chapter, which I'll upload next Sunday, but the more reviews I get, the faster I update…so subtle, I know. Ah well. Let me try the unsubtle method. Review please! 


	4. Chapter IV: Sin

**Lovely **– I know the feeling! I love getting creeped out at night, it's so scary and yet not, if you know what I mean. I love writing JohnAngela, they're so much fun. I can make them really sarcastic and bitchy to each other, and then I can write some really sweet fluff. Ahhh….Thanks for reviewing!

**Seryblack** – Subtly is my forte…except when I want something. Then I'm blatant. For example, I'm very blatant when I want reviews! I'm really glad you like my story, and thanks for reviewing!

A special thanks to **Lady Hawke**, who sent me a PM when was doing it's weird not-letting-you-give-reviews thing. Thank you so much for going to all the trouble, I really appreciate it, and I'm so happy that you think this is good. Thank you millions!

Sorry this took two weeks instead of one, I sort-of had an idea in mind for the chapter, and then I changed it around so that it sets up part of the storyline in one of the sequels. Also, I timed this shittily, and so I promised fluff last chapter, and actually, that's next chapter. I'm so sorry! But remember, big fluff next chapter! Lots and lots of fluff!

Oh, this chapter rips off the Hellblazer universe big time. So sue me. I'm not claiming it's mine, and you all know it's not.

* * *

**Chapter IV: Sin**

He sat alone, in the window of his narrow, dark apartment. If he looked upwards, towards the heavens, the outside world was dark, completely dark, with only the waning moon shining palely down, only to have its light thrown back. If he looked down, towards hell, he could only see blindingly bright light. It was amazing, the contrast that could be seen with just a tilt of his head.

The scene was shattered when he coughed, deep chesty coughs that burnt the back of his throat. He pulled away from the frigid night air that stuck like a knife in his gullet and retreated into the relative warmth of his apartment. There was a sudden uncontrollable rush of fear like a cold snake in his stomach, which he calmly pushed away with rationality. It wasn't the cancer again. The Devil had taken the tumours in his lungs away, and though he didn't really trust the word of the Devil, he knew it was true. The x-rays done by Dr Archer had proved that. She hadn't been able to believe it at first. She'd insisted on him going for a second set, and once it was shown that they were clear as well, a third. But he'd escaped before she could subject him to that, he remembered with black humour.

He'd stopped coughing now that he was in the warmth. It was the cold air, that was all. And maybe a little reminder from the Devil, making him remember he was beholden to him.

_Well fuck you_ he thought in his typical Constantine fashion.

He began to chew a new stick of nicotine gum, just to aggravate the Devil if he was watching – as he always was – but it was disgusting. Really. No substitute at all for the real thing. Those little white, innocent looking sticks that plagued his body as he purged himself of their effects.

_Surely one couldn't hurt…? _

Constantine turned his mind sharply away from that train of thought. It was just the withdrawal talking, he assured himself. It made him feel weak and ill, two adjectives he didn't like to use to describe himself. In his world, having those two qualities could get you killed, if you weren't strong enough to defend yourself.

He was though. Constantine, the hardass, the defender of fucking humanity, if any of them actually knew it. He was tougher than anyone knew. Strong enough that he would stick away from the cigarettes. If only to figuratively spit in the Devil's eye.

As a compensation to his body for subjecting it to the vicious nicotine gum, he poured himself a generous measure of whiskey. He felt it burn the back of his throat like the coughing had, but this was silky smooth. The strong liquid suppressing the itch and irritation, he let it slide down his gullet in a manner that was almost sensual. The forbidden love between a man and his alcohol.

The contrast in the sky was gone. In fact, it had been overpowered by the light pollution of the city, forcing the darkness back, if only temporarily.

He thought back to that night in the cemetery. He wasn't sorry to run into Angela again, but he wished it would have been some other time. She was still grieving for her sister, and her death. He knew, just from the few words he'd overheard at the Catholic Theological Society, when she was talking to Father Garrett, that she hadn't been able to get a Catholic funeral for her sister, when even she didn't know for sure that it wasn't a suicide. But now, even when she knew that Isabel had only taken her life for the good of humanity, she hadn't been able to convince the Bishop otherwise. She hadn't told him that. There was just something painfully obvious missing from Isabel's tombstone when she'd pointed it out to him earlier. Part of that was Angela's own feelings about the matter projecting onto the object, but it was the absence of any consecration, any spiritual balm laid over the wound of her death. And also Angela's own aura, full of anger, frustration and guilt for what she should have been able to do for her sister.

He wished that he could tell her not to worry, to stop feeling guilty. She'd done so much for her sister. She'd been possessed by Mammon, almost ritually sacrificed and put through Hell, and it had never occurred to her that if Isabel hadn't killed herself, none of this would be happening to her. But then again, Mammon might have succeeded using Isabel. He wondered whether anyone had ever told Angela how strong she was. She thought he was strong, but she was wrong. He could summon elementals, deport half-breeds and kill a demon without flinching or even stopping for breath, but not without fucking someone over. She was strong enough to save souls, not take the easy road and destroy them like he did.

Fucking his friends over seemed to be ingrained in his blood. It seemed to be something he did whether he meant to or not. Sometimes it was unavoidable. Like Gary Lester, who had been possessed by the demon Mnemoth, and had been killed by himself and Midnite in order to stop Mnemoth from devouring New York City. But others had been killed just by association, like Chas or Hennessy, and some had even taken their own lives to avoid facing his world, and then had ended up in Hell for their crimes. He was just a damned one man plague.

Constantine had often thought that he was cursed. Because the worst of what he'd done he didn't even remember doing.

He'd never told her this. It hadn't come up. He wished that he had told her. But the encounter with her and Isabel's death had shaken him up. It hit too close to the bone. The whole twin-thing was just too eerie, like the universe was trying to tell him something. But he doubted he'd be able to tell her it anyway. It was a constant resentment, burning into him so quietly and for so long that he didn't think he thought about it anymore. Until it came back with all the screaming guilt that it had the first time it had truly sunk in.

He'd been a murderer. Before he had even taken his first breath.

He'd killed his twin brother in the womb, strangling him with his umbilical cord. His mother had delivered the twins, one alive, one dead, and then died from complications. John had never found out what these complications were. His father had never again talked about his mother, only to blame John for her death. He'd killed her, and his brother. Both killed because of him.

Satan must have laughed that day.

As far as he could remember, he never had a brother and his only mother was his stepmother, once his father had remarried. But he wasn't allowed to forget. He was a murderer. His father reminded him of that every day.

Original sin, he'd never believed in that. But he'd sinned before he'd even formed a conscious thought. What did God make of that?

When he was a teenager, he'd run away from home several times, trying to leave his name and past behind. But it had all got too much. He couldn't go anywhere without seeing them. The half-breeds. He couldn't walk outside without seeing evidence of his gift, his curse, his sight. As a result, he was in and out of Ravenscar more times than virtually any other patient. It was practically a record. Whenever he got out, it all became so overwhelming and too difficult to deal with.

So, he'd tried to kill himself. And failed. It was like someone had decided to torture him by letting him live.

After he got out of hospital, he'd left before they put him back in Ravenscar. He fled into the underground of the city, studying with teachers, masters of the occult who recognised his gift and the anger breeding within him. He'd been taught by a variety of instructors. Some had specialised in crack magic, or any sort of drug magic, inducing visions and trips upon others. Others had studied formally, Crowley for example, and believed in the ultimate power of magic. The beauty of magic for them, lay in its ability to get people to bend their wills to yours. Deceptive magic. He'd been taught all of them, but ultimately he'd walked the middle path. A little light magic, a little dark. Some self-gratifying, some selfless. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. He'd done a lot of bad shit, but he'd never done anything really evil.

Yet he was damned anyway, simply for something he couldn't even remember doing.

It was part of the reason that he hated Gabriel. On one of his first meetings with that half-breed shit, the angel had just mentioned the fact that he'd never get to Heaven with his track record. That condescendingly cold and patronising voice reminding him that he was eternally condemned for something he had no control over had ignited a spark of anger within him. Before he knew it, he was one breath away from sending the pathetic half-breed back up to Heaven, where he belonged. He remembered Gabriel's light, icy eyes, daring him to do it. So he'd obliged. It had felt good, but it burned when he was found later by Gabriel, who had gleefully informed him that she'd been sent back down to 'watch over him'. John's response had been short and obscene, but that had in some way, fuelled Gabriel's ardour for demeaning and belittling him. In many ways, it had almost become funny. But he'd got the last laugh, in the hydrotherapy room.

Constantine was shocked out of his contemplation by a knock on the door, an unfamiliar sound for his apartment. The door was so heavy that any knock sounded like a judgement day bell was tolling on it. But that was the major perk of astral light, or psychic senses. He could already tell who it was, just through their contact with the door.

As he opened the door, he very gently studied her aura – if he did it more forcibly, she'd sense it – trying to get an impression of her mood. When his eyes met hers, he could see it all. Her eyes, sometimes grey, sometimes green, sometimes hazel, were now a mix of all of those colours. He could almost sense something vulnerable in her gaze, and he didn't want to hold her stare. There was something about seeing someone's vulnerability which felt like the psychic equivalent of seeing them in their underwear.

"Can I come in?" she asked, her voice soft and undemanding, yet her aura deceived her and revealed her urgency, her desire to come in. It did wonders for his ego, which really didn't need any help. "Please?"

He moved backwards, allowing her through.

"Always a catch…"

* * *

I know I like, never say John's name, I just refer to him as 'he', but it's late and I've been hauling Christmas trees around and my hands are all prickered! Poor me! But my exams finish tomorrow, I saw Narnia and March of the Penguins over the weekend and it looks like I'm seeing King Kong on Wednesday, so things could be worse…

I apologise for any errors, as I had no time to check this chapter over. If there are any, can someone point them out to me? Thanks.

And with that, there's nothing left to say except, as always, please review!


	5. Chapter V: Warmth

**Shana** – Sorry, no steamy love scenes…at least, not yet! Thanks for reviewing, it's always good to know that I'm getting Angela and John down right. I know what you mean, the whole category seems to be a bit dominated by Chastine! Not that I have a problem with Chastine, it just seems out of character. Anyway, thanks again for reviewing, and I hope to hear from you again!

**fanficgeek** – Thank you so much for reviewing all four chapters at once! That totally made my day, when I opened my inbox and found four reviews! Yeah, I love that line too. It just sounded so Constantine, as though he's using magic as an excuse to be a bit cheeky! As said below, I think I will continue this fic, and if I do, it's all down to you, because I wasn't even considering continuing it until you mentioned it! Thank you so much for reviewing and generally being wonderful (hugs)

**LadyHawke** – Yay! Computers are evil in general, and I'm glad you got yours fixed. I was worried that never saying John would be a bit obvious, like it would really be conspicuous by its absence. Thanks for reassuring me!

**Silverbloodrain **– Do you mean updating or reviewing? Because if it's the first, I've been waiting to read the next chapter of Truth be Told (I can't wait, you write Angela and John really well!), and if it's the second, doesn't matter. I love hearing from you, you always make me feel really good about my writing. Lots of love too!

**Lovely** – Sorry! But there's fluff this chapter. Lots and lots of fluff! I went a bit overboard here, but it was so much fun to write! I really like writing John, I actually had a bit of trouble at first, but then I started to get into asshole mode and he came out quite well! I'm in the top two, huh? That actually made my day. Thanks! Oh, don't worry about being demanding. It's motivating! (And yeah, do colours have wings that we can't see? Ahh, they're half-breeds! You can tell I've had too much champagne, can't you?)

Happy Christmas to all who celebrate it, and if you don't (I don't) have a good 25th and happy holidays anyway! This update is just my first present to all of you – there's more! Read on...

The chapter title comes from the Incubus song 'The Warmth', which is amazing anyway, but also sums up the feel of this chapter. The thing about the sound of breathing comes from the Yellowcard song 'Breathing', which was kind of my inspiration for that section. Go look up the lyrics of both, as I think they're both Constantine-y songs. I was also listening to Someday by Nickelback…but I'm not sure how Constantine that is. Still a great song though.

Okay, I'm taking opportunity to plug King Kong. Seriously, how amazing is that film? Visually, it's stunning, and the acting is incredible. Adrian Brody rocks my socks, and I thought Naomi Watts was really good. I've written the first chapter for a fic called Beauty, and I'll be posting it within the next week, so I'd love it if some of you would give me some feedback. Thanks.

Here's your second present, which you can thank **fanficgeek** for. Okay, you win. I think I'm going to extend this beyond six chapters. I have an idea for where this can go, but I need to do a little research before that, so next chapter I'll confirm whether I'm doing it or not. Is that good news?

This was a very long author's note, I've had a lot of champagne and have spent about nine hours today writing. I think there's really nothing more to say except enjoy! Sweet fluff!

* * *

**Chapter V: Warmth**

Angela stepped into the apartment, feeling out of place. She wished John hadn't said that; it reminded her of the first time she was here. When she was grieving over Isabel, and yet denying her suicide with a passion. The denial gave her the strength to wake up each morning.

John stood by the window, watching her openly, as though he was waiting for her to explain why she was here. She had no idea though. Desperation? The fact that he was the only person in the whole world, or so it felt, that understood her right now? The practicality of the situation; he needed to know what had happened to her, as he was the only person who might be able to explain it? Whatever it was, she just had the inexplicable feeling that this was where she was meant to be.

Her legs felt strained, as though someone had put her muscles in a blender. It wasn't too bizarre; after all, she'd been running for a long time. But at that moment, she felt like her legs were going to give way, and she wasn't completely sure that it was solely because she was tired.

She slid into a seat at the battered wooden table, and Constantine did the same. It was obviously old; there were deep stains ingrained into the wood, and there was something down the middle that looked like an axe had been hurled into the wood.

"Possessed victim" she heard John say, making her jump. She hadn't realised her was watching her, following her gaze. "Came after me with a fire axe. Surprised he didn't completely fuck up the table"

Angela managed a smile. He followed her lead and sat down at the table, directly opposite her. Though he wanted to ask her what was wrong, and it was in his nature to do so, he knew from experience that silence made people talk.

"There was a half-breed" Angela finally recounted to him. "I thought he was just a mugger, as he was just after my purse at first. Then he got a little nasty when he realised it was pretty much empty, and so I just kicked him and ran off"

"He must have thought you had something"

"Yeah…um, I realised afterwards that I'd used that purse to carry the Spear" she admitted, their eyes meeting.

"Is the Spear safe?" John asked.

She nodded vehemently. "Only Isabel and I know about the place it's hidden in" She fell silent briefly, thinking about the place. It held a lot of memories for both her and her twin. It was their secret, their refuge from the rest of the world. Not even their parents knew about it. It belonged to them and them alone. When Angela went to visit her sister in Ravenscar or whatever hospital she was in, they'd often talk about it, since it was never safe to discuss anything but the past with Isabel.

Bringing herself back to the present, Angela shook off her memories and made herself focus. "So why could the half-breed sense the Spear? It was over a month ago"

"Stuff like that leaves a sort of trace" he informed her. "Psychometry"

"What?"

"The art of discovering details about a place or person by touching something that belonged to them" he recited. In his line of business, it paid to know stuff like that.

"So the demon could know stuff about me, just by touching my bag?" Angela asked, her voice and demeanour calm though inwardly she was alarmed.

"Depends. What did you do with the bag?"

"I had to leave it" she explained, suddenly feeling a little guilty for not having fought harder to get it back. "The half-breed was more interested in it than me, so I escaped while I could"

John didn't say anything, not at first, but poured himself another shot of whiskey, and a second one for Angela. She accepted it without argument, as despite the fact she wasn't really a drinker at all, she needed something to balance the surreal happenings of this night.

"So…what?" she asked. "What does it all mean?" She was too tired to be elegant, and probably about to lose her focus, so all she could hope was that he'd be able to fill in a few gaps for her.

He took another swig of his glass before answering. "If he was looking for you, he might be looking for the Spear. If he's looking for the Spear, he sure as hell isn't doing it under his own steam"

"You mean–"

"The Devil might be after it" John said deadpan. "But he might have just sent the demon after you, and it got sidetracked by the scent of the Spear"

"I hope so" Angela said, half to herself. She felt the urge to hug her knees to her chest as she'd done when she was a kid, and scared. When she and Isabel were kids, and she'd lost the ability to See, she'd spent a lot of nights curled up in her room, sitting bold upright, unable to sleep and wishing that she could, because she could hear the sound of people on the floor below and often it was accompanied by her sister's screaming. Sometimes it was her church's exorcist, other times doctors from psychiatric hospitals, and occasionally it was just her parents fighting over what to do with her sister. It was terrifying, and what made it worse was that Isabel didn't seem to notice. If she wasn't present, she slept through it, or when she came up after whatever had transpired, she just went to sleep easily without saying a word to Angela. In fact, if Angela couldn't sleep because of it, she would sometimes come over to her sister and try to comfort her, swearing that she would protect her. Angela hadn't the heart to tell her sister that she didn't think she'd ever be able to protect anyway.

Yet, she'd tried to protect the whole world by taking her own life, even though it meant going to Hell.

John got up suddenly, knocking Angela out of her reverie, going to small box on a random surface. Taking something out of it, he came back around the table and pressed something cold into Angela's hand. She glanced down, and saw that it was the trinity amulet.

"John, it's okay. I'll be fine" she stated, trying to sound more confident than she actually was.

"Please Angela" Two words. And yet it seemed as though he'd written an essay on the subject. She admitted defeat, and reached back to clip the amulet around her neck.

"Bullet-proof vest, right?" she said with a small smile, trying to fasten the delicate chain around her neck, but the amulet slipped out of her grasp and she reached up again to fiddle with the clasp.

"Here" John said, and reached around to fasten it at the nape of her neck. A tiny bolt of electricity shocked down Angela's spine.

"Thanks" she said as he moved back.

"Don't take it off if you can help it"

"Why?" she asked. "What does it do?"

"It was made and blessed by a priest for his daughter, who could See. It's about as protective as they come, without strapping a cross to every single bit of skin"

"And what, it hides me from the half-breeds?"

"Sort of. It changes their range – masks your imprint, your identity. They can find a psychic, but not you specifically. It's like using a club instead of an arrow"

"Okay" There was a second of silence between them, which Angela broke. "You know, you don't have to worry about me. I can take care of myself"

His eyes met hers briefly and she saw something – she didn't know what – flicker across his dark eyes. "I just don't want anything to happen to you"

It was weird, the amulet didn't warm to her skin temperature at all; it was still freezing cold against her breastbone. She shivered, and turned her gaze towards the huge, floor-to-ceiling windows. It was dark out, dark for autumn, and reflective of her mood. She realised with a jump that it was at least one in the morning, and she ached with tiredness. She'd have to be at the station for eight thirty the next morning, and the idea of trudging home now was really unappealing. Still, she had to do it. Her hands instinctively went to her bag to dig out her keys–

_Oh shit._

"Uh…is there any chance I can stay here tonight?" she asked. "I left everything in my purse with the half-breed, and I don't have keys for my place or anything"

"I think I remember being taught to always keep your keys in your pocket in case you got mugged" he said with sarcasm.

Angela's clear eyes were innocent-looking as she replied. "And who taught you that?"

"A cop I used to know"

"They must have been smarter than me" There was something self-deprecatory in her tone, and it crippled the ironic twist in her words. "So?"

John looked up at her. He wouldn't have refused her. He couldn't. "Yeah. Course"

"Thank you"

There was a sincerity in her voice and her gaze that he found almost unnerving. He had to look away.

Later, after she was feeling a tiny bit more uninhibited by the alcohol, she told herself firmly to go to sleep before she did anything stupid. And so, she was here, lying on one side of the wide double bed, contained within a steel cage – to keep things out, she supposed. Her mind reeled in a number of directions when she first saw it, but she was more used to it now.

Angela shivered, her bare arms being skimmed by cold air. A part of her itched to get under the covers, but that gesture seemed kind of pushy, as though she wanted something more. But she didn't. Did she? There was definitely something strange between them, but she couldn't figure out what it was. It seemed like nothing connected with John Constantine was simple.

She felt him lie out on the other side of the bed, on top of the covers like she was. They were so close that she could feel the tiny vibrations that came with each breath. It was such a small sound, but it was going to keep her awake, she knew it. Her heart was going so fast, she was sure he could hear it. It felt so foreign, so alien, being so close to each other, but at the same time, she felt safe in a way that she hadn't ever since she'd rediscovered her ability to See.

"Are you cold?" Constantine asked from the other side of the bed, startling her. They weren't even facing each other, at least, she wasn't, and she wouldn't have thought he would be.

"A little" she admitted, keeping her hands on her bare upper arms.

She didn't quite know how it happened, but soon, she felt warmth of contact spreading through her body. A hand wrapped over her midriff, drawing her in slightly, and she could feel slight breaths on her neck. The thing was, the sound didn't seem so loud anymore.

It was comforting, and a part of her just wanted to stay like that, knowing she'd sleep well, but she forced herself to flip over, onto her left side, so that she could see his face.

"If I didn't know you any better, I'd say that you were being protective"

"Good thing you know better then" he said in his usual deadpan way.

She had to smile. "Goodnight" Angela almost felt like she had to thank him in some way, for everything he'd done, but how do you express something like that?

A strange idea struck her, and she was just drunk enough to consider it. Very softly, she moved in slightly, suddenly noticed all the places their bodies were touching. She gently pressed her lips against his, a brief, warm kiss that sent a sudden rush of heat down her spine, ironically making her shiver.

"What was that for?" he asked, amusement evident in his voice.

"Just a thank you" she replied in a lighter tone than she actually felt.

"I think I'll be more generous to you in future"

Angela smiled. "Goodnight"

"Goodnight" The words hung in the air between them, the silence eerie and yet comfortable. They both lay frozen in their positions, the dim light shielding them from everything else, hiding them, at least for a little while.

* * *

Now that kiss was the third present…that was the best thing ever to write. Until I write the next one, of course…oh, I'm evil, aren't I?

Next update will probably be New Year's Day, but it all depends on how drunk I am…joke!

What did you think? Please review!


	6. Chapter VI: Ethereal

**scarstar** – Thanks! I love writing JohnAngela togetherness, they're fun (: Thanks also for your comment on my LJ, it meant a lot (hugs)

**fanficgeek** – Sometimes it feels like I'm rushing! I don't think me, drunk, and writing mix…let's just say bad experiences! I'm glad you liked the kiss, thanks for reviewing!

**Lady Hawke** – Excellent, that's what I like to hear! I'm glad you liked it, thanks for reviewing!

**Lovely** – It does sound kind of dirty, doesn't it? Happy 2006 to you too!

**Budgiebird** – I'm really sorry for the hold-up! Yeah, school sucks, but I hope this helps! Thanks for reviewing!

Sorry for the wait! I am such a bad person…but I'm here now, and that's what matters, right? My muse abandoned me, and so I ended up watching a lot of movies in an attempt to get it back. Didn't work, because now I'm obsessed with Kingdom of Heaven. Shit.

I was watching it earlier, so I think some of the atonement ideas in this chapter came from there. Snaps if you get which part I'm going on about. And also snaps if you're waiting on the edge of your seat for the Director's Cut like me.

Okay, **important note** – I said in the last chapter I was thinking of extending this beyond six chapters, and I'd give my answer here. Well, it's yes, I am extending this fic. It's probably be a fair length now, with a bit more of a plot. Is that good news? I hope so!

Once again – sorry for the delay, and I hope you all like the chapter.

* * *

**Chapter VI: Ethereal **

The golden lights of heaven beckoned. The radiant glow pulsed through the fluffy clouds, throwing beams of divine light onto the ground – only there was no ground. The air beneath her feet felt endless, as though there was now no connection between her body and the earth, only miles of gentle mist. It felt like hot gold suffused on beams of bronze light. No pearly gates or pure white clouds on a brilliantly blue sky. This was an explosion of sunrise colours, pale golds mingling with burnt oranges and deep russets that passed for shadows up here. All of these colours cradled the centre of white light emanating from a source beyond Angela's sight.

In all of her fantasies, heaven had never looked so perfect.

_I must be dreaming_ she thought to herself. _I have to be dreaming._

_So why am I dreaming about heaven? _

Clouds parted slightly, as if being swept aside by a divine hand. A figure formed from the wisps of peachy and golden clouds, a figure that seemed moulded from the clouds and the haze of heaven. The figure's back was slightly turned, its face turned towards the radiant light, but the long hair falling down her back received a gust of wind, a lift of golden mist from the unknown source, and it revealed just a glimpse of her face to Angela. That was all that was needed.

_Isabel…_

Her sister turned towards her, suddenly seeming more tangible than before, and there was just a flicker of a smile on her face. Not a smile of the inward peace that she wore when she was in Ravenscar, the smile of someone who knows something that rest of the world doesn't. It always made Angela feel that her sister had a whole world that she knew nothing about. But now, she smiled at Angela fully, as though she herself had brought Angela here.

_But why…? _

Suddenly Angela understood. She had brought her here to make her realise a fear she didn't know she had. She was terrified that Isabel wasn't in heaven. Everything she had done was to get atonement. Not for herself but for Isabel.

And now, she knew the truth at last.

She wanted so badly to hold her sister, wanted to let her know how grateful she was. Angela wasn't exactly the crying type, but after seeing her sister in heaven, it seemed reasonable that she felt more relieved than she ever had before.

She suddenly felt a small warmth in her hand, as though in a supernatural, psychic way, her sister had put her hand in hers. Angela wanted to reach out and grab her sister's hand for real, but she had the feeling that when she did, everything would vanish into wisps of smoke and mist.

Isabel's lips started to move, as though she was trying to tell Angela something. A slight look of urgency came over her face, and she gesticulated with her hands, trying earnestly to get some point across to her twin. What she was saying affected Angela deeply, but the second she tried to think about the words, she couldn't remember any of them. It was as though they wouldn't stay in her head.

Isabel finished speaking, and extended her hand towards Angela, as though she was going to give her something. She smiled, that strange smile that Angela still wasn't used to seeing, but without warning, the bright light behind her blared, and Angela was blinded by an influx of light. Her sister's silhouette disappeared in the violent intensity of the light, and there was a shriek, a cry that made Angela's ears feel like they were bleeding. The light continued to increase, and then disappeared like a blown bulb.

Angela woke with a start, the intensity of the light leaving an impression every time she blinked, but she didn't feel sleepy or half-awake. Instead she felt energised, as though she hadn't slept at all, but instead drunk about a dozen espressos. Her fists were tight around the sheet, as though she had been clutching it in her sleep. Her fingers left small marks until she pulled it out, making it straight and clean once more.

It took her a second to realise where she was. The shuttered light wasn't anything like the light that poured through the windows of her own apartment. That was soft and reassuring, as though it wouldn't creep in without her invitation. The dawn light that poured through the sharp steel shutters here felt like razor blades were coming in through her eyes. The bed was positioned just so that what little light filtered in through the shutters hit the steel bars of the cage surrounding his bed – something she'd meant to enquire about but had decided she didn't want to know – and bounce straight into her eyes. It was blinding, and frankly, she was amazed that she'd managed to get this much sleep. How did he sleep like this?

Thinking of the person who was still next to her, she turned slightly, looking directly into his sleeping face. Sleeping, with his defences gone, the look on his face was softer than the sharp, cynical, hardened being she usually faced. It was amazing how much his face seemed to change whilst he was sleeping.

There was a small part of Angela that was surprised he wasn't awake– he had a habit of always seeming to be alert and vigilant when she wasn't – and there was an even smaller part that wanted to wake him up. She wanted to tell him about her dream of Isabel. What did this mean? But deep inside, she was afraid that if she told him, he'd tell her in his most unfeeling way that it was a dream and nothing more. She didn't want to countenance that possibility. It was better that it stayed a dream, an ethereal fantasy, and then she could live in the hope that it was actually Isabel and not an over-active imagination.

Angela pushed that unpleasant thought out of her mind and headed for the bathroom as quietly as possible. Looking into the mirror, inexplicably cracked in the top right-hand corner, and blackened, as though a metal bolt wreathed in fire had been thrown against it. Looking into her own face, she saw that for the first time in a week, there weren't purpling bags under her eyes, transforming her face into that of an old woman's. For once she looked like she was vaguely together and in control.

Angela tried to pull her hair back into something that would look presentable. Like it or not, she'd have to go in to work today. She had taken a fair amount of time off after sorting out Isabel's funeral and she couldn't really afford to do so again. She didn't want to. She was good at her job and she knew it.

Checking her watch, she noted that if she left now, she might be able to go back to her apartment, grovel in front of her landlady for a spare key, change and go to work on time. She might just manage it.

Sliding into the main room, making no noise, she collected her jacket, which she had left over the back of a slightly dilapidated chair, and shrugged it on. The trinity amulet shifted until it was touching her bare skin, right between her collarbones, and the chill of the metal made her shiver.

"Not sticking around?"

Angela turned around sharply, her cop instincts making her react to the sound of his voice reflexively. "Some of us have a little thing called work" she said with a touch of humour. She went to the door, then stopped. She felt like she had to say or do something as a thank you. But there didn't seem to be anything she could do. Shake his hand? Kiss his cheek? This felt hideously awkward, and the fact that as a psychic and magus he could probably see her aura and tell what he was feeling didn't help the situation any.

Instead, she stepped a little closer in, not quite knowing what she was hoping to achieve, and hugged him. Maybe it was the feel of his heartbeat, almost in sync with hers, maybe it was the smell of sleep and the hint of the whiskey from the night before, but she was suddenly struck by the tangibility of all of this. When she'd met him, he hadn't quite seemed of this world. And then he'd shown her things that weren't of this world, and opened her up to a new realm of potential. Still, nothing had quite seemed real. But now, so close that she could smell his skin, it all felt real. It felt very real and natural and – almost – normal.

"Thank you" she whispered very softly, but she knew he would hear her. Then she pulled away and left the apartment quickly, running down the stairs and through the bowling alley as quickly as possible because she knew that there was a large part of her that wanted to stay there, against her better judgement.

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Oh…foreshadowing there. And a little fluff. But mostly foreshadowing.

Please review!


	7. Chapter VII: Anger

**Scarstar – **My muse says thanks for the encouragement! Thank you for your compliments, you're making me blush! And there will be more fluff, I promise. Just because I can't live without it.

**Lady Hawke** – Thanks! I LOVE writing Angela and John, they're so bizarre. You never quite know what they think of each other. I really glad you liked the last chapter, thanks for reviewing!

**Budgiebird** – I like Kingdom of Heaven, but I think I'm in a minority. It is Orlando Bloom, who I like because my brother hates. I keep an OB calendar on my wall just to keep my brother out of my room! Oh, and if you're a dork, I'm a dork too! (gives cookies). Thanks for reviewing!

**Silverbloodrain **– Thank you! Your comment really made me smile (gives e-chocolate). Thanks for reviewing!

**Issay** – Yay! Thanks! I love writing fluff…yes, I'm an addict! Thanks for reviewing!

I feel like death warmed up, so I'm not going to make this a long author's note. I just want to say that I have never felt less in character whilst writing this, as I saw Memoirs of a Geisha on Friday, Jarhead on Saturday, bought The Village on DVD and am having a big obsessed about it being on 12 days until Walk the Line comes out. So I was thinking about the army, kimonos, post modernism mind-fucks and Southern accents when I wrote this. So if this is bad, blame all of those things.

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**Chapter VII: Anger**

_Okay, sort out complicated relations later, focus on work now…_

Angela tried to look competent and professional as she parked her black car in her customary space at the station. Most days she liked coming into her job, because she knew that at the end of it she could leave with a sense of quiet satisfaction in knowing that she'd done her job well and helped a few people. Now though, her head was flickering from one thought to the next so fast that she already had a headache, and it was only eight forty-five.

"Angie?"

Angela wheeled round at the sound of her nickname, thinking of Isabel. Isabel had given her that nickname, and in retribution, Angela had called her Izzy. As they'd grown up Angela had sort of abandoned her sister's nickname, but Isabel had never stopped calling her Angie. It kind of bugged her, but no-one else was allowed to call her that, and it seemed to bring Isabel back from her paranoia somewhat. However, now that she was dead, Angela didn't like to hear anyone call her by that name. She had tolerated people calling her Angie for years, but the memory of Isabel opened up her recent grief-inflicted wound, and she snapped at the speaker, more harshly than she'd meant to.

"What?" she barked. Weiss, her partner, gave her a look that was more than a little taken aback. Angela wasn't really a tempestuous person. In fact, she had always seemed kind of emotionally distant. The only time he had seen her really upset was when she saw her sister's body. Understandable. But now, she seemed more sensitive, as though something that really upset her.

"Jeez" he muttered darkly. "What's up with you?"

Normally Angela would have apologised, made an excuse, tried to smooth it over. But for some reason she felt unable to let go of it, and in her mind she almost felt like Weiss was doing it maliciously. She knew that was irrational, that he couldn't have known, but she still felt the insult in her heart, as though grief had closed around the slight and was refusing to let it go.

"Nothing" she said snappily, brushing her hair over one shoulder with an annoyed air. "What did you want?"

Weiss looked her over. She was definitely acting weirdly, but she was his senior, and he couldn't do much but obey her. He didn't really dare do much else.

"Just wanted to say good morning" he said, almost sheepishly, and then he added under his breath "Next time I won't bother"

A new wave of anger flared up inside Angela, something that she knew consciously was smothering her anger, but she concealed both emotions, just sighing under her breath, thinking up a few curses and walking towards the station briskly. With a cooling wind in her face, she felt a little calmer and more rational. She could sense Weiss' confusion and slight annoyance with her, but she didn't turn back, and just kept walking up towards the station building.

The second she stepped into the lobby, she was struck by a blast of freezing cold air that made her shiver. The autumn day outside was not warm, but it certainly wasn't as cold as this.

"Jesus" she breathed, half-expecting to see her breath frozen on the wind. "Hey, why's the AC on? It's November!"

The receptionist shrugged. "System's broken. Won't be fixed for a week or so"

"Jesus" Angela repeated, rolling her eyes. She turned on her heel sharply and headed towards her locker, where she could dump her stuff. Weiss followed her in, under the pretext of going to his own locker, but as soon as the door swung shut he turned to speak to her.

"You know Angie, maybe you shouldn't be here" he said quietly. "It hasn't been long since your sister jumped off the roof; I'm sure Foreman will let you have some more time off…"

"It wasn't a suicide, it was a murder" Angela said, knowing that she sounded like a broken record, but too incensed to care. "And stop worrying about me" she said sharply, making Weiss physically recoil at the vehemence in her tone. Her eyes practically emitted sparks with the force of her suppressed anger, and finally Weiss took the hint. As soon as he left the small room, Angela sat down, letting her breathing slow down until she was sure she could control it. She needed to think.

Okay, sometimes she found Weiss a little annoying, but she had never snapped at him like that before. She usually managed to maintain a sort of professional distance from him, and that usually worked. But just then, she had suddenly felt so angry that she thought she would snap her jaw if she didn't let it out.

What was happening to her?

_Okay, calm down_ she told herself in her cop's voice. Sympathetic, but firm. Firm, but encouraging. Encouraging, but insistent. It had taken her years to perfect, like being able to talk in an accent, and it even convinced her to be honest with herself. _Think about it. You spent the previous night pouring out your soul at your sister's graveside, fighting half-breeds for something you don't even have anymore, then sleeping next to someone you don't really know all that well and even kissing them. It's no wonder everything is a bit screwed up._ A bit being a massive understatement.

Though her cop's voice was rational, one part of the statement stuck in Angela's head. Someone she didn't even know that well. If you could measure friendship in days, then it was true, they were no more than acquaintances. But so much had happened in that short time. Constantine was the only person she could trust to navigate her through the new worlds her eyes had been reopened to. She trusted him. Even if it felt like sometimes she didn't know anything about him – after all, the most he'd ever said about himself had been at Molly's Diner, and then he'd been expecting to get rid of her soon, she though. When she met him, she thought he'd be able to help her clear Isabel's name and prove that she was innocent of the suicide. That hadn't really worked out. _Even if you sacrifice yourself for the good of all mankind, it's still suicide _she thought with a cynical twist. _Who makes these rules_?

She didn't let her mind dwell on what had transpired in the bed last night, although when she heard it, even in her own head, it sounded so much worse than the truth. It wasn't worth it. _After all, it wasn't planned or anything_ she thought defensively. And a kiss between friends isn't so bad. Is it?

_Piss. _

Her mind didn't feel up to dealing with this. She was sitting alone in a room that was as cold as Hell was hot whilst her colleagues out there were probably gossiping about how she'd lost her mind. She didn't blame them. Even she thought that she was going crazy.

_Maybe you are…_

A little voice in the back of her head began to whisper to her. _Maybe you're just like Isabel…_

Angela abruptly stood up, her body reacting before her brain could process the thought, and peered into the mirror. She looked alright, she supposed. Not obviously like someone who was worrying that their mind was cracking up. But her face looked a little paler than usual, and her eyes looked strangely shadowed, gaunt.

As she looked into her own pale eyes, she noticed that behind her reflection, it was getting darker, as though a shadow was seeping into the mirror. She turned around briefly, all of her senses on alert, but there was nothing there. She even cast out her psychic senses, throwing them out like a net as she had been taught. The only thing there was a neutral feeling from the mirror. Not good, not bad, just powerful.

The black shadow spread like liquid fire, rolling across the mirror in an oily fashion. It glossed over the glass so smoothly that it did not appear to be moving at all. Angela heard the intake of air stick in her throat, and for a moment, it felt as though she couldn't breathe. Her lungs protested violently, but even though she knew that there was no smoke behind her, she couldn't tear her eyes from the mirror, and watching her own reflection, tainted by the greasy smoke and struggling for breath, it felt more real than her own reality.

Echoes began to sound in the distance, reverberating through the mirror like ripples of water. They got closer and closer as the smoke got closer and closer to Angela's body. It was now so close to her that she could see it reflected in her own eyes, and she was expecting to feel the oily-like touch of it on her skin any second now.

…_Angela! _

The harsh, guttural pronunciation of her name rang in her ears like a wounding obscenity. The shock and power of the word pulled her free of the smoke, and without warning, she suddenly found herself released of the smoke's spell. As she gasped, desperately getting her breath back, she glanced upwards at the mirror. It looked the same as it always had, serenely reflecting the opposite wall and the monotonous identical grey lockers, the single electric bulb casting distorted shadows on the rest of the room.

There was a knock on the door, which made Angela jump. She had been so deeply absorbed in examining the mirror that she hadn't heard any footsteps approaching, or even noted the passing of time.

The door opened, and Weiss entered – slightly timidly, Angela noted, as though he was unsure what state she would be in.

"Angie, Foreman just assigned this to us" He held out a file, the standard brown manila affair, but to Angela's psychic eye she could see that it was glowing faintly.

"Thank you" she said, her voice sounding slightly hoarse, as though she had just inhaled actual smoke. She reached out her hand for the file, taking it and rifling through its contents

A photograph fell out, face down on the floor. Angela bent down to pick it up, but as she did so, a bolt of electricity shot through her arm. The pain was intense, but brief, and before she could react it was gone. Her only tell-tale reaction was her body's reflex release of the photograph, and it fluttered gently to the ground, a few feet away from where she was now.

"Angie?" Weiss asked. "Are you alright?"

His statement didn't irritate Angela as much as it had done earlier. Frankly now, she had other things on her mind.

"Fine" she lied, cautiously inching her hand over to pick up the photograph. Bracing herself, she let her fingertips graze it casually. Nothing. She picked it up, ready to release it if it shocked her again. Still nothing. She was almost willing to forget the shock, if it weren't for the aching pain in her left arm.

She flipped the photo over.

"Mary mother of God" she breathed, unprepared for what she saw.

"I know" Weiss said in a way that was a cross between sympathetic and professional. "Serial killer. Or at least, he or she is now. This is the third case, so it's officially our business"

Angela nodded, even though she hadn't heard a word that Weiss had said. The photograph was nothing unusual. It was just a normal crime photograph of the victim, a girl, barely old enough to drive. Her throat had been cut, and there was blood obscuring the name of the band on the t-shirt she was wearing.

But that was not what drew Angela's attention.

Her attention was drawn to the glaring red light that beamed out of the girl's palms and the soles of her feet. Psychic stigmata. And as it shone into Angela's face, she could feel the oily touch of the light, like the oily smoke in the mirror.

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What do you think? Please review! 


	8. Chapter VIII: Guilt

**Budgiebird **– Oh, you'll find out soon…I'm sorry I made you wait so long, but I'm glad that you're enjoying this, and have more cookies! (hands them over). Thanks for reviewing!

**Lovely **– Don't worry, I'm being bad about updating when I say I will, so I can forgive forgetting to review! I'm so glad you're liking the suspense. There is a reason for all the stuff happening, never fear! And yes, there will be more fluff. I'm too addicted to writing it to stop!

**Evelyn Valerious** - Ah, don't worry. I'm really glad that you're reading it now. I think it's so convenient that Angela's a cop, it all ties in beautifully. Can I ask where you got your name from? Is it something to do with the Mummy, by any chance? (grins). Thanks for reviewing!

**DesertFlowerSimion **– Yay, thanks for your reviews! And I'm glad you like my AngelaJohn fluff. I adore writing it!

**scarstar – **Ah, thank you! I intend to keep you all gripped, that way you'll have to come back and read some more! I'm soulless, aren't I?

**Lady Hawke **– That's good, keep you hooked! It's very evil of me, but I am an utter review whore, so I might as well be evil (grins)

**Silverbloodrain** – Sugar is good – we like sugar! Which movies were you watching? Constantine I trust? Thank you for reviewing!

Seven reviews…I do not deserve all of you lovely people as reviewers. Especially when I keep promising I'll update weekly when I rarely do. So from now, **I** **will be updating every other week**. Though if I do by a miracle write ahead of myself for once, I will update weekly. But officially, I will update every other Sunday. I'm sorry, but I'm approaching my GCSEs and I don't want to spend hours everyone Sunday struggling to write a mediocre chapter when I could write a better one. Sound fair?

Anyway, as my apology for not updating last week this chapter is about double the length of some of the others. Parts of it I took from a Constantine fic I started and then abandoned, so if any parts seem like they don't gel, let me know and I'll fix it.

With that done, on with the show!

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**Chapter VIII: Guilt**

Constantine glanced around to get his bearings, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu. A couple of months earlier, he had been in a place very similar to this, and for exactly the same reason. However, he felt far less confident about this exorcism than he had for the other one, and it hadn't been someone trustworthy who had informed him of it. He felt a small pang of guilt as he remembered Father Hennessy. He was an alcoholic, a spineless man who had refused to accept his own gift, but he was a good person, and one of the few friends Constantine had had in his life. Same with Chas and Beeman. He hoped that they were all in the good place now. The one without the fire and eternal torment.

He realised that he was unconsciously feeling inside his pocket for his lighter. His mind knew that he had left it on Chas' gravestone, but after over two decades of smoking certain habits were engraved in his bones. Instead, he pulled out a stick of nicotine gum and chewed it meditatively. He knew it was meant to help overcome his lifelong habit, but God it tasted awful. It made him feel like a kid, and he preferred not to be reminded of his childhood, surrounded by demons with no way to control them. No wonder he was considered insane by the time he was fourteen years old.

It was weird, what had happened this morning. After Angela had left, he hadn't done much. Until the call came. Someone – he didn't know who and they didn't give a name – had said they needed an exorcist. That was unusual. He wasn't exactly in the Yellow Pages. And people who needed his help usually knew him and vice versa. This was definitely strange. You didn't need to be a psychic to know that. But he'd gone anyway. He could tell that the person at the other end was genuinely emotional – though he wasn't sure that it was fear. But it was definitely something in his line of work. This building, this atmosphere, just confirmed that. Unlike his last exorcism, where the whole building and all its inhabitants were buzzing, this building was quiet, almost eerily so. Obviously this person hadn't been found – or was already dead. A flicker of suspicion ran through his mind, but it was quietened when a loud thump and a scream came from an upstairs room, and his sixth sense, his astral feelers flared.

Something was here that was definitely not supposed to be here.

He had planned on having to follow this psychic sense to the source, but as he started to enter the building, another scream echoed from upstairs, and a window smashed on the fourth floor. That made it easier for him.

He started to climb the flights of stairs, thanking, not for the first time, the Devil for ridding him of his cancer. However, he thought his silently, and gave the mental finger to Lucifer. Just because he was thankful didn't mean he was going to pretend to give anything more than a shit for the guy. He took in a deep breath, revelling in the feeling. It still surprised him to be able to breathe deeply and clearly, without wheezing or coughing. Just another thing he wasn't used to yet.

John entered the apartment in question. He could find it easily; the screaming from the apartment hadn't stopped and his astral light was drawing him to the source.

A man was standing there, inside the apartment, as though he was waiting for something. He appeared to have found it in Constantine, as the second he saw him, he stopped uncomfortably shifting his weight from one foot to the other and left, pushing past John hurriedly. The brief contact made John's psychic powers more acute, more specific, and he could tell that the man was terrified, terrified of the creature that appeared to be devouring his partner – whether wife or girlfriend, Constantine couldn't tell, but he knew that this wasn't the person who had called him about his notable skills as an exorcist. And it didn't take any sort of supernatural ability to know that. The person who had called him was female. And damnably familiar. But there wasn't really any time to worry about that now.

He could hear a strange scrabbling sound. Looking for the source of the noise, John could see it; it was coming from behind a wooden door to his right; clearly locked. Whether that was to keep people out or demons in, he couldn't tell.

Picking up a wire coat hanger dangling from an ironing board in the main room, he untwisted it quickly into a straight strand of wire. Jamming it through the lock and manipulating it roughly, he heard the definitive click that meant the lock was undone. The whole operation had taken about half a minute. It was scary, really how practised he was at it. But, after all, he was thirty-eight, and had been exorcising demons for over fifteen years. Knowing a few tricks like lock-picking definitely helped.

The door popped open easily, and Constantine wisely stood back slightly, giving the door a solid kick to open it fully. However, it did not open properly, instead hitting into the bulk behind the door. Taking advantage of the moment, Constantine entered the room, and grabbed the stunned demon – well, person possessed by a demon. One thing that they never seemed to learn was that when they possessed a body, they took on their frailties as well. A door hitting a seplavite wouldn't have done a thing besides pissing it off mildly. But hitting a human – especially catching it just on the crown of the head – resulted in a concussion, as proved here. The host body slumped behind the door, fingers splayed out and bleeding. There was a cut or a wound on the person's palm – he couldn't see what it was clearly.

The demon was there, rippling beneath the skin of the woman. She was young, maybe twenty-five or so, with short, crisply-cut blonde hair that was sprawled over the pillow messily and soaked with sweat. Dark red vessels showed down the side of her face, like dried blood, and every now and again, something flickered over her face, like a shadow of demon. Which, entirely non-ironically, it was.

Constantine deliberately turned his back on the demon, knowing that it couldn't do anything while the host body was unconscious, and ripped open the curtains, allowing sunlight to flood into the room. The demon shrank back, recoiling from the light like it was acid. Even though the host was unconscious, the demon within was still active, stretching and tearing at the skin like it was tissue paper.

Coming back towards the demon, Constantine started the Latin chant that would hopefully force the demon back to where it belonged.

_Crux sancta sit mihi lux_

_Non draco sit mihi dux_

_Vade retro satana_

_Nunquam suade mihi vana_

_Sunt mala quae libas_

_Ipse venena bibas_

The power of the ancient Latin words forced the demon from just below the girl's skin to further, back through the source, back into Hell. Her outward appearance shifted slightly, back towards its normal look. Constantine however knew that the demon within was still there, still fighting. It just needed to move out of range of Constantine's exorcism. If it went deep enough, it should have been able to escape his power. But John had plenty more tricks up his sleeves.

Without warning, the demon pushed forwards, stretching the girl's skin paper thin in a completely grotesque way. However, Constantine had been prepared for that, and pressed one of his silver saint medallions to the demon's head. There was definitely a certain satisfaction as he watched the flesh sizzle and felt the demon underneath recede back to Hell. You didn't spend twenty years exorcising demons and not then get some pleasure out of watching them burn.

The demons fell backwards, not just out of Constantine's psychic range but right back, down into Hell. He could sense it falling, and the flare of heat the resulted make him doubly convinced that it was gone. No demon he had ever faced would have survived that.

He turned to go. He'd had to deal before with sceptics, who, not believing that they had been possessed and finding a strange man inside their home, often threatened to call the police. John smirked. He'd love to see the look on Angela's face as she got called out to deal with an exorcist, not exactly the usual in the LAPD, but he liked her too much to humiliate her. What had happened last night had been a surprise. He'd have expected her never to want to see him again. After all, they'd met after her sister had killed herself. Now that it was all over, he had thought that she would want to forget him and go back to a normal life. And it would have been in his best interests to do the same…

Except that this was his normal life. Every rotten stinking second of it.

Well, at least he wouldn't be dying any time soon. And the son of the Devil wouldn't be making Earth an extension of Hell.

And at least Angela was still in his life. For now, at any rate.

John popped another stick of nicotine gum in his mouth, his old one stale and tasteless. As he placed his hand on the door, his senses flared, so much that he was almost stunned for a second.

Turning around suddenly, he could just see the demon returning to the surface of the woman's skin. It was stretching at her body again, pulling it with scaly fingers like her skin was rubber. It was grotesque, and the sight of it spurred Constantine on, if only to get the disgusting sight out of his mind.

The demon was tearing from within, hungrily and desperately. Constantine reached again for his medals, on his keychain in his pocket, but the creature was quicker. With a mighty burst of energy, it was propelled forwards and used one clawed talon to gouge through the woman's midriff. She spluttered, the body spasming even though her mind wasn't in control, as her life's blood poured out onto the carpeted floor. She was dead between the space of two blinks. And the beast – the demon within her body – had sprung out of her body, crossed the divide between Hell and Earth.

John paused, almost unable to believe what he was seeing. This was almost unbelievable, and he wrote the book on the unbelievable, but the demon had come through. This was impossible. This shouldn't have been happening.

Even more surprisingly, the demon was ignoring him, and it was standing in the window, looking almost proud, holding itself there for a second. Now Constantine knew there was something seriously wrong. Most demons, even contained within possessed bodies, couldn't bear the touch of sunlight. But this one was standing in the window calmly.

There was a clear shot lined up, but Constantine didn't have that sort of weaponry with him. All he had were his saints' medals, a Bible and a small vial of holy water. Nothing that would help him fight this demon.

Without looking back, the demon jumped out of the window. It was too much to hope that it would somehow be damaged by the fall. John looked out of the window, just catching a glimpse of the demon as it scurried towards the shadows between buildings, blending invisibly with the darkness and leaving his sight.

"Shit" he said inadequately, his fingernails digging into his palms as he clenched his fists. Then, once he was thinking rationally again, he tried to explain what had happened.

Only there was no easy explanation. The demon had fallen into Hell. He'd never known any demon to crawl it's way back after being sent down again, besides, it hadn't looked like it was crawling back. It was being propelled back.

Someone in Hell was too desperate to let that victim go.

Constantine turned around abruptly, needing air. A vicious murder had taken place here, and as far as anyone was concerned, he was the last person to see the victim. He needed to get out of here, and quickly.

He got out of the room and left the apartment as fast as possible. The man who was in the apartment before was nowhere to be seen, which seemed to be the one bit of luck he had on his side that day. He strode down the hall as fast as possible, when his psychic intuition blazed again. Constantine stopped, and turned, trying to locate the source of the feeling.

As he circled, his senses flared up again, unsurprisingly, considering the amount of supernatural activity that had occurred there, but this time they had the light of familiarity about them. Someone was here whom he knew. He whipped around, but all that greeted him was more darkness and sterile doors that could have been either opened or closed – he couldn't tell. What he could tell though, was that someone was watching him, and someone he had once known. _A demon?_ he asked himself. _No_, his rational mind reasoned. If it was a demon possessing someone else, he would notice it more. This presence was subtle, and far more human than any possessed person would be able to be. A half-breed? Maybe, but if so it was one of the better disguised ones.

Constantine relaxed himself as far as he could, which wasn't very far. When you relaxed, you put yourself off guard, unprepared for any attack that could come for you. And he couldn't afford to be unprepared. Hey, he didn't sleep in a cage for fun (his mind reeled in a number of bizarre directions). However, only when he relaxed and let his entire body, psychic and physical, and let them lose their tension could he hear the thoughts of those around him. It was advanced magic, powerful forces, but he had used it before, numerous times, and it had gotten easier over the years. It would be child's play to a more powerful psychic, but there weren't that many of them. Constantine didn't even know one. Except...

He sighed with frustration, his concentration broken. To be honest, he hadn't got time for this. A demon was on the loose – something that was completely his fault, the nagging voice in his head said – and he should be going to kill it before it killed something. But this presence intrigued him, as though it felt weirdly familiar, there was a sharp streak in it, a captivating mix of fire and ice.

Constantine rubbed his temples, hard, as if it would help, really wishing he had a cigarette or a shot of some liquor or something, anything that would make this all seem like a bad dream he could wake up from. For a second he knew how Father Hennessy had felt. He had drowned himself in drink to silence all of this, as though ignorance protected you any.

However much he wanted a drink or something, he had to do this. The suspense was killing him. He tried to still his tense nerves, something he found incredibly hard to do, but his will to succeed overcame his apprehension.

The thoughts were blurred, hard to hear and even harder to sort into coherent words. However, one thing got across clear as crystal.

_I miss having someone I can…relate to. _

He knew that voice. He looked around the empty hallway, not really able to see anything in the dark, but he heard a door slamming behind him. As he turned around sharply, he just caught a glimpse of a serrated tail.

_A tail?_ his higher mind said.

_Shit_, his lower mind replied.

Oh Jesus…Now he knew where he knew the voice. Shit didn't even begin to cover this.

Now he really needed a drink. He strode off down the hall purposefully.

* * *

Okay, there is a prize for anyone who gets who that is that Constantine sensed in the hallway. It's a prize in the form of some Constantine graphics made by me and e-chocolate, but a prize none the less. Any ideas? (Hint: look in the novel) 

Is there a sort of equivalent for the Yellow Pages in America? I didn't know, so I just left it in. But if anyone knows what the equivalent is, please tell me so I can correct this chapter.

Constantine's Latin chant means something like 'May the Holy Cross be my light, let not the dragon (Satan) lead me, step back Satan, never tempt me with vain things, what you offer me is evil, drink the poison yourself'. Or something like that. I just thought I'd try something different from the film.

Please review!


	9. Chapter IX: Blood

**Angelfirenze** – Thanks for reviewing so many times! I agree, there aren't very many good Constantine fics out there, and there's not very much JohnAngela stuff. When you say it sucks, do you mean the death? Cause if so, yeah, having your throat slit can't be fun. And it is important…(malicious cackle). Thanks for reviewing!

**Budgiebird** – Thanks! I'm really glad it's suspenseful, it's meant to be, but I wasn't sure if it was coming off. You have a point about Americans not being creative with names…but then again, in Britain, it's still fairly unimaginative. Where I live, there are like four streets called New Road (; Thanks for reviewing!

**Evelyn Valerious **– That sounds like a good idea for a humourfic actually…_Exorcist for hire, comes with own tools and sarcasm_. That really made me laugh, your suggestion. I love the Mummy too. Rachel Weisz rocks, period. Thanks for reviewing!

**DesertFlowerSimion** – Yep, it was Ellie. I really love her. She's just so…demonic and slutty. A fun combination to write (: Thanks for reviewing!

**Lovely** – I can do no wrong? Awesome…if my parents ever said that to me, I'd probably be in jail within the hour! I'm glad you thought my Constantine was in-character. Why is it that the assholes are the hardest to write? Thanks for reviewing!

**Lady Hawke** – Ah, don't worry, all will be revealed…It's a bit of an esoteric character really. It's one of the few that was actually based on a Hellblazer character. Thanks for reviewing!

How typical. I say that from now on I'll be updating fortnightly, and then suddenly I manage to update the next week. It's a long one, as well. But I guess I was inspired by waking up last Monday and having 10 reviews overnight. That was awesome, thank you all. And thanks for giving me 50 reviews. You guys rock.

Yeah, this part was kinda inspired by the movie 'The Watcher', which features Keanu Reeves as a serial killer. So it's appropriate in like…four different ways.

I feel pretty ill, so if there are any errors or bits that don't make sense, tell me so I can correct them when I'm feeling human again. But I am having hot cross buns. Which, as my friend **LadyOfThieves** has proved, are addictive.

Congratulations to **Lovely**, **DesertFlowerSimion** and **Budgiebird** for guessing who the mystery person was – it was Ellie, the slutty half-breed who got mainly cut from the film. She will be back, don't worry…If any of you didn't get my email, yell at me to fix my server and I'll resend.

* * *

**Chapter IX: Blood**

It had to be the first time that Angela had ever been even vaguely glad to enter a crime scene. Before she'd even been able to See, the very aura of a crime scene as violent as this one would have been enough to make the sternest cops falter. She'd seen guys twice her size vomit when they saw the victim of an inventive murderer. The whole atmosphere was disgusting, and it took a very strong person to quell the feelings of horror and revulsion that threatened to overwhelm them. But now, even though Angela started to feel a nauseous sensation in her stomach, she was too intrigued by the atmosphere of the scene to pay much attention to it.

The teenager had been killed in a multi-storey car park, on the third level. The car park was only a few minutes – ten at most – away from the police station, but Angela refused to walk there. It made it all too real. Every step of the journey, she would be thinking about the victim. Would they have walked this way? Would they have been innocently passing by until they were picked out as the murderer's target? Or would they have been walking willingly towards it, not knowing what awaited them within? No. She didn't want to know that. All of her professional life as a cop, she had known that she could understand people well. It was what made her think like a killer and beat him at his own game. But she had also been able to think like a victim, and she didn't like doing that. She had always thought it was luck. But now she knew what it was; her astral light, her psychic sense trying to get out. Now that she recognised it, she could control it. Mostly.

The multi-storey was empty, apart from several vehicles which were probably used by the few people who could afford to go and look around the shops at two in the afternoon on a weekday, as well as people that still hadn't shrugged off their Halloween hangovers to collect their cars, and the last two were obviously abandoned cars, so beat up no-one would want to willingly drive them. But what interested Angela was the chalk outline occupying a space all by itself, and the ominous dark stain that led towards and away from it.

Half the forensics team had been down here, and their equipment still littered the desolate parking lot. But most of them had gone for lunch, or just to get away from the stale, decaying smell that lingered after death, and so the car park was blissfully empty.

Weiss hung back slightly as Angela went forwards. Though he wouldn't admit it, he was worried about her. She had come in this morning, bitten his head off, holed herself up in the locker room and then, once he had shown her the case, she had insisted on coming as quickly as possible. Even though the energy she had seen had been bordering on frenetic, she hadn't said a word in the ride there, just drummed her fingers on the steering wheel impatiently and stared out of the window. He knew that her sister had died a while back, and he didn't expect her to be completely okay. But this was bizarre, this deep anger that seemed to be without a source. Angela had never been the warmest person, in fact, she was freezing cold, but he'd never thought that she would ever show this amount of emotion. It wasn't really like her. But then again, her twin had been a patient at Ravenscar. Maybe it ran in the family…

Weiss didn't really like thinking that. But based on the way Angela was acting, it did seem to fit…

Angela was unaware of Weiss' thoughts, though, if she had concentrated, she would have been able to discern them from the spiritual wavelength that permeated everything. However, she was turning her thoughts towards the victim, evaluating the area. Her footsteps echoed out against the floor; there was no way the murderer would have been able to been able to sneak up on the victim unawares. It was impossible.

Unless…

Unless the victim didn't walk around on two legs.

Angela pushed that thought from her mind. Even though she had strong suspicions – very strong suspicions – that this murder was supernatural, she had to look at it from all angles before she made a judgement.

She tried to picture it in her mind. According to the coroner's initial report, they reckoned that the girl had been killed at about four in the morning. She had been discovered at six or so, by a passer-by. That meant that it would have been dark, and cold. There was little street lighting around the area, and none inside the car park, so it would have been full of shadows. Shadows so long that they would have seemed like they were trying to hold onto whatever part of her body they could touch.

_A girl, dressed in black, walking through the car park, her footsteps striking out a rhythmic beat on the soulless concrete. In the darkness, she could feel her body grow tense and alert, just in case. She wished that she had accepted her friend's offer to walk with her to her car. But there wasn't any need. They'd had some fun, gone to some truly atrocious Halloween concert, had a few, but she was fine. Totally in control. _

_So why were her hands shaking, causing one of her too-large silver rings to rattle round her finger?_

_A noise from behind her, like a bird's shriek. A crow, or a raven. The noise echoed dramatically, causing her to jump. Once it faded, and her heart returned to its normal rhythm, she relaxed. Nothing to worry about. Just a bird. _

_Jesus, where was her damn car? It couldn't have been stolen. It was just a beat-up piece of shit, nothing out of the ordinary. So many paint jobs and repairs that it was impossible to tell what sort of car it had been in the first place. It was a mongrel. But it was her mongrel. _

_As she circled the car park, she could hear the bird again, its chilling note sending shivers down her spine. She broke into a run, trying to escape it, but she didn't even know what she was running from. All she knew was that there was something behind her, so close that she could feel the rush of cold air every time it moved behind her. _

_She pressed her back against a concrete pillar, feeling its stability. Safe. Immovable. She was okay. The ringing echoes died away behind her, and she listened to the sounds of silence. It was such a welcome sound she could have cried. _

_Without warning, the sound of the bird's shriek suddenly rose up behind her and kept on coming closer, until it was in her ears, drowning out all other sound. She could feel hands – or what she thought were hands – grasping her bare arms, dragging her away. She struggled, but deep inside of her, she knew it was futile. She could tell just by the way the air chilled, by the way her body froze, that she was about to meet her maker. _

_Cold metal brushed her neck. A knife? No, it was too delicate for that. A necklace? _

_Her train of thought was interrupted when more metal brushed over her throat, but this time, she knew it was a knife. At its very touch, the edge just nicking her skin, she flung her hands out, trying to reach her assailant. All she touched was empty air, the too-large ring flying off her finger to land behind her with a metallic echo. It kissed her throat sensuously, just teasing her, before slicing down like it an ordinary table knife slicing warmed butter. Any noise she would have made died in her throat, as her life's blood seeped out down her throat, staining her skin. _

_Stinging pain brushed her palms, but she could barely feel them anymore. The numbness spread, first from her outmost limbs, and then, towards her heart, her centre. _

_It ends…it ends…it ends…_

Angela stopped herself there, fighting for control of her imagination. She hadn't expected to lose it. And she certainly hadn't expected to tap her own powers and touch the victim's memories. It had taken place in the space of a few seconds, and while it had been disturbing, but not bad. And yet, she knew that there was something strange, something dark, in her mind, waiting for her to let herself go that deep again…

"Angie?" Weiss asked her. "Are you okay?"

Confident in her control, Angela turned to face him, outwardly calm but inwardly annoyed with herself for losing control so obviously. Though she was shaken a little at the unexpected intervention by her psychic senses, the cop in her was dealing with this new information, sorting through it methodically for anything that might be of use.

"Fine" she said simply. "We ought to have a look around. If there was a struggle, there might be some evidence left behind" _Like a ring, for example…_

Weiss moved further up, scouring along the furthest row of parking spaces against the far wall. Angela however stayed close to the body, searching around that area. A quick glance about confirmed that the pillar the victim had stood against was a couple of metres to her left, and between the pillar and the victim's body there were a few fat droplets of blood, so Angela summarised that the body had been dragged over there after death. Why? Was it too conspicuous where it was?

Something glittered in the darkness, illuminated by one of the narrow shafts of light that managed to penetrate the concrete. Using her Sight as well as the evidence of her eyes, she could see it. It was shining with astral light, and she could see that it was tainted with a psychic residue.

Picking it up, she could see that it was the silver ring she had seen in her vision. Perfectly normal, clearly not too expensive, but nothing out of the ordinary. However, as she tilted the band to the light, she could see that it was coated in a dried black substance, like tar.

An idea hitting her, Angela looked over at the victim, bordered in by oceans of yellow tape. Ducking under it, she approached the body, colder than most because of the clammy, chilling concrete it lay on.

Lifting up the white sheet, she looked at the girl's hands. Studying them, she could see that the psychic stigmata still glowed from her hands, though there was no psychical injury. However, as Angela looked at her fingers, she could see that they too were coated with a similar black substance. Where it had come from though, she had no idea. Judging by the astral light she saw emitting from it, she could guess it wasn't exactly of this world. The forensics people were going to have a field day with this.

Looking towards the victim's face, she noticed something. What attracted her attention was the necklace around the victim's neck. It stood out from her completely black outfit, embellished with silver jewellery, because it had a gold chain and a relatively small pendant. Angela tugged out the pendant from where it lay, half hidden underneath a lapel, and held it in her hand, aghast at what she saw. Her other hand flew to her own neck, where the trinity amulet hung, lying against her skin. She held it in her hand, and compared it to the one worn by the murder victim.

They were one and the same.

The interlocking triangles fit on top of one another perfectly, identical down to the tiny script of Latin words that marched along the curves of the locket.

_What the–?_

Somewhere, she heard Weiss' cell phone ringing, sending out echoes through the desolate car park. Angela barely noticed though, as her concentration was preoccupied with the amulets. Why did this girl have the same amulet as her?

Her mind flashed back to the vision she had seen. In that, she had felt something metallic being put around the victim's neck before she died. Could that be this?

But then, how could it be a half-breed or even a supernatural death if she was wearing this amulet? Surely that would ward those sorts of demons off?

Her temples throbbed suddenly, threatening a headache. Angela ran one hand through her hair, pulling it away from her face so that she could think better. There had to be some sort of rational explanation for this. She just couldn't see it.

She'd have to talk to John about this. She didn't want to drag him into any of her police business, because, as Weiss had proved after the whole hydrotherapy room Mammon-trying-to-take-over-the-world incident, he'd love to lock John up. It had been hard enough trying to get him off the hook that time. But she'd need his help on something like this. An uneasy feeling in her gut told her that this was much bigger than it looked.

"Angie" Weiss called from the other end, snapping his cell shut. "There's been another one"

* * *

No prizes for guessing who the other victim is…

Please review!


	10. Chapter X: Trust

**Evelyn Valerious** – I'm really glad this story is suspenseful, that's what I'm aiming for! Unfortunately, you won't find out everything that's going on for a while yet…okay, I shouldn't have said that, because now you want to hurt me, right:) Thanks for reviewing!

**Angelfirenze** – Sorry, no, but Gabriel will be coming into it later. And yes, there is JohnAngela, but not the kind you might expect…I'm sorry you're feeling ill. I was ill every single day of my half-term holiday, which really sucked. And I still had to do homework! Thanks for reviewing!

**SleepDeprived07** – I have this weird thing about my neck too. I have this big dark scar there, but I don't know where it came from. Freaky, huh? I only know that if anyone touches it, I scream. I wrote it because I figured if it made me squeamish, it would probably make other people squeamish too. I'm sorry! Yep, you're right, the killer does have an intrinsic connection to Angela. And Ellie's definitely got it in for Constantine, so she isn't going anywhere. It's so much fun writing villains…Thanks for reviewing!

**Silverbloodrain** – No! Save me from the fluffy fuzzy bunnies! Always blame the sugar, I say. It's responsible for all the evil today…ergo, sugar is the antichrist! Sorry, I think I've had too much sugar ;) Thanks for putting this story on your alert list, and thanks for reviewing!

**scarstar** – Aw, thank you! It's weird looking back, even four months or so ago to the beginning of this fic and seeing how much my writing's changed since then. It's even weirder looking at Awakening, which I started the idea for when I was thirteen. Ah well. Memories. I'm glad I'm getting Angela down well, and thanks for reviewing!

**Quicksilvermad** – Thanks for reviewing! I'm sorry I've made you wait so long for an update!

**Lady Hawke** – I'm glad I got the victim's POV down well, that was the hardest bit of the chapter in my opinion. I'm glad you're on the edge of your seat; if all goes as planned, you won't be off there for a while yet! Does that make sense? I'm pretty sure I gave up making sense quite a long time ago :) Thanks for reviewing!

Hey all. So, I achieved my goal for today. Three updates for three fics. I must say, I'm feeling pretty accomplished.

Thank you all for your amazing reviews. I forgot to say this last chapter, but thank you for helping me break 50 reviews. My New Year's Resolution for 2006 was to break 100 reviews, and I'd love it if I could break 100 by like Chapter 14. So if there are any silent readers out there, please step up and review! I promise I don't bite…but I do ramble. And obsess. But that's another story…

I posted a new My Own Private Idaho fanfic recently, and if anyone's a fan, I'd love to hear from you! It's all Mike/Scott, of course, and if anyone reviews, I promise them lots of e-chocolate and Constantine posters!

Oh, a warning about the pointless use of language in this chapter. Okay, not pointless. But certainly strong language. If that's going to offend…you really shouldn't have watched the movie, it's no worse than anything in that.

* * *

**Chapter X: Trust**

John drained the shot glass, but paused before refilling it. Should he have another? He'd fought demons drunker after all – in fact, it was an ideal state of mind to be dealing with otherworldly beings from Hell. But they'd only been half-breeds and the occasional possessed innocent. Never a full-fledged demon that he should have been able to stop before it killed someone…

Considering the fact he'd only really come back to his apartment to pick up the Holy Shotgun relic, getting pissed seemed a little counter-productive. However, his head was killing him, and the first few edges of guilt were gnawing away at his mind. He should have been able to stop the demon. He should have been able to deport it back to Hell. That woman shouldn't have had to die…

As these thoughts flashed through his mind, he grabbed the bottle and prepared to pour himself another shot of Jack Daniels. He didn't need to be feeling guilt. Guilt was a luxury he didn't have time for.

He groaned, an almost inaudible sound, and drank deeply from the bottle, not even bothering to pour it into a glass first. Guilt was not something he enjoyed feeling, and the self-pitying stage that followed always required a four drink minimum. He usually refused to get pulled into that cycle, and walked away. But right now, getting pissed seemed like a better idea.

There was a knock on the door, which John ignored. Whoever it was, he didn't feel up to talking and pretending to care about what they had to say. He just took another sip from the glass and wished he had a cigarette to go with it. But he'd thrown all of them out after the Devil had removed the cancer from his lungs, and to go out would take time that he could use for wallowing in self-pity.

The person didn't go away though. Reluctantly, John threw out his psychic net, his astral light. Whoever was on the other side of the wall was definitely human, not a half-breed, he could sense that. But who it was…he didn't know, but he had a pretty good idea. And he didn't want to see that person either, so he didn't move and waited for them to get the hint.

Angela checked her watch. It was after six, so she would have expected him to be here. Of course, exorcists didn't really keep predictable hours, and, she thought with a touch of humour, even if they did, she couldn't really picture John doing anything predictable. Everything he did seemed to be a surprise, and she'd given up trying to rationalise it. This whole world, the world of Heaven and Hell behind every door couldn't be rationalised.

She saw that the door was ajar, ever so slightly. It didn't look like it ever closed properly, let alone locked, but there was a serious supernatural alarm system on it, designed to keep demons and half-breeds out. However, Angela was neither, and so, when she pushed the door wide enough for her to enter, nothing happened. Except an assault on her psychic wavelength. It took her a second to deal with it, but she realised that she was picking up emotion; regret and frustration, but mainly guilt. A lot of guilt. The sort of guilt that acts like a black hole, sucking in all it touches and leaving only remorse and desperation behind. It was so deep and so strong that she almost backed out. But her natural stubbornness and curiosity persisted, and she forced herself to walk through the door.

Looking around, she could see Constantine sitting in the window, staring out towards the city. In the flickered light coming in through the shutters, she could see his face. It was set, and hard, as though it was carved out of marble.

"What's wrong?" she asked Constantine as soon as she saw him, before anything else. She asked before she saw the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels, which only confirmed her suspicions.

"You know, when someone doesn't answer the door, it means that they don't want to speak to anyone"

Angela was momentarily taken aback by this reply. "And when someone bursts in it means that they need to talk to the person inside" she said caustically, her natural stubbornness and sharpness making her reply so indignantly. "This is important, I need your help"

"Sure" he said, inflicting even more sarcasm on that one syllable. "Okay. Do you need someone to get killed? Because right now I'm doing a two for one deal on that" He hadn't meant to be so cynical, but it had come out without him thinking about it. Right now he was feeling sharp and defensive and destructive, and he needed to take it out on someone else so that he could lessen his own guilt.

"John, what's up with you?" Angela asked, impatience making her blunter than she would normally be.

"Nothing" he replied brusquely, swinging his legs around from the window sill so that he was facing into the room, towards her. In fact, everything felt wrong, but he didn't want to think about that, and the leftover bitterness was clawing at his soul, twisting his words into something cynical and embittered. "So, what's the problem, Officer?"

Something in his voice, and the use of her rank, made Angela distinctly uncomfortable. She could sense his self-destructive mood, and she knew that her being here was only going to get her dragged down.

"A teenage girl was killed in a parking lot by something supernatural" she began to explain, slowly. "She had her throat slit. And there were spiritual wounds – things only I could see. Like stigmata" She deliberately neglected to mention the necklace. "And then there was a woman, who looked like her organs had been ripped out of her stomach, or someone had put immense pressure on them from the inside of her body" Constantine stiffened just slightly, but she barely noticed, the movement was so small. "She had the stigmata things too"

"Was that woman killed on the east side of the city?" he asked, and Angela could hear the mingled curiosity and regret in his voice, as though he didn't want to hear the answer.

"Yeah, in her apartment. It was around eleven in the morning–"

"Yeah, I know. I was there"

"You were there?" Angela asked, nonplussed. "Why – did you see anything?"

"What, other than the demon that broke out of her body?" His words came out sounding hollow and jaded.

"A demon?" Angela repeated incredulously. "At that woman's apartment? Where she–"

John nodded, stopping her before she finished her sentence. Hearing it coming out of her mouth, in her clear, almost innocent-sounding voice would have made him feel even guiltier. He was at the breaking point of this guilt and regret, the point where he would either turn around and try to atone for what had happened, or where he would plunge into a pit of self-destruction and bitterness.

"John…if you don't get out soon they'll find you" Angela said as calmly as possible, though her pulse was thudding heavily in her neck and the words seemed to be sticking inside.

The threat of them, of authority, hung in the air between them.

Constantine didn't turn around, but he didn't move. He knew exactly what she was talking about. Them. Police. For as long as he'd had his gift, for as long as he'd been able to See the other Them, he'd been at odds with the police. He considered himself to have got off lightly, really. A few arrests, speeding tickets and the revocation of his driving license wasn't much for everything he did. If only the police knew about all the relics, some collected without the prior owner's consent, and all the other things hidden back here, behind a bowling alley of all places, then he knew he'd have a lot to answer for.

A sudden thought entered his head; it wasn't a particularly pleasant thought, but now that it had spoken, it couldn't be silenced. _Did Angela–?_

It wasn't a good thought, but it was a good question. Did Angela tell anyone about him?

"No"

Her voice came out of the silence of his own thoughts like a thunderbolt. He looked up at her, surprised.

"No" Angela repeated. "I haven't told anyone at the station about you. Or anything here. I know that this is something they could…interfere with. But no-one's blind either, John. The victim's husband himself identified you as turning up. He doesn't remember a lot, but he identified you. Weiss is going nuts, he thinks he's finally got you"

Despite the seriousness of the situation, John smirked bitterly. After the incident at Ravenscar, where Angela and John had walked out of the building utterly unscathed and refusing to give a description of what had transpired in there, Weiss had harboured something of a vendetta against John. He was practically convinced that Constantine was the antichrist himself. Ironic that.

Angela continued. "It's just a matter of time. Someone will get wind of this sooner or later. If you can lie low–" She broke off there, and he could see a liquid quality in her eyes. Was she crying? He suddenly felt like a jerk for dragging her into all of this. _But she came to me,_ a voice in his head said reasonably. Still, he couldn't bear to look at her. She was an innocent, and now she was tainted with the same curse as him. He should have refused, when she asked him to help her See. But now there was no going back now.

"Please" she said softly, meeting his eyes, and he could properly see the crystal tears forming. Still, she met his gaze directly "Trust me"

_I can't trust anyone. _

He didn't say this, but he knew as soon as he thought it that Angela had picked it up from the psychic wavelength around them. She turned her face away suddenly as if she'd been metaphorically slapped, and then, with effort, turned it back to look at him. Her eyes, usually flickering between hazel and green, were a steely grey that was soft enough to betray how wounded she was. How much he'd hurt her. And he hadn't even had to say anything. That was how poisonous, how dangerous he was. A damned one man plague.

Without meeting her gaze, he turned around, picking up the Holy Shotgun from its position on the antique wooden table, and left the apartment swiftly, without looking back. The only indication of his feelings was the slam of the door, causing the bottles of holy water lining the windows to shake violently. One fell, crashing to the ground and spilling its precious contents all over the uneven wooden floor, tainting them. Good. He was fucking tired of suddenly being a saint, when in reality he was a sinner and would always be a sinner. He couldn't fucking help anyone.

Back in the apartment, Angela stood still, even though the no-longer holy water lapped at the toes of her black pumps. Her whole body was perfectly still, rigid even, but her heart was racing inside her body. She felt like she'd tried reaching her hand out, and ended up getting it caught in a mousetrap. In some ways, she wished that she had seen this side of him first. But that morning, she had seen the softer side, the side that couldn't keep up the cynicism and hardness that his waking self wore. And maybe she was crazy to expect that that side of him would still be visible now. But she had wanted it badly. She wanted his help. She wanted his friendship. And she wanted to feel like there was one person in the world who she could rely on.

Still standing, she clenched her hands into fists silently, just to get rid of the tension in them, and let out a long slow sigh, expelling all the air from her lungs. Once she felt as though she had herself under control, she used her hand to wipe away the tears that had spilt down her cheeks.

* * *

I'm really sorry! But I have to break them up so I can get them back together (even though they aren't really a couple yet…). Don't worry, I will sort everything out…if you all give me plenty of reviews (hint hint! My subtly amazes me…). This is my deal; more reviews equal more fluff. Sound fair? And if it doesn't…you'll still get your fluff :)

And with that offer in mind, please review!


	11. Chapter XI: Games

**scarstar – **Yay for long reviews! Don't worry, they will be together at some point. I've just got to make them realise how much they mean to each other first. That's so weird, I had this image of how Scott drank whilst I was writing that chapter. Freaky! Are you sure you're not psychic? ;) I love John's one-liners, they're the sort of thing I really adore writing. Thanks for your (long!) review!

**Issay – **I'd do anything to write fluff! I love JA fluff, it's so sarcastic and wonderful…Thanks for reviewing!

**Evelyn Valerious –** They'll be back together, I promise. I just didn't want to make it too easy for them, because then we're into the realm of perfect wedded bliss, and that's far less fun to write than this ;) Angela is so stubborn! I love her for that. She's so much fun to write…Thanks for reviewing!

**Ithilwen6 **– (giggles) Your review reminded me of one I got for another story, where I killed off a character, and to express how they felt someone told me that I was evil 46 times :) Thanks for reviewing!

**Shana** – Thanks! I intend to!

Also, a big thank you to **Angelfirenze** who took the time to PM me when the review thing was busted. I still want to borrow Brandon Boyd though…

Okay, this is not a rant, but I've noticed that a lot of old reviewers have stopped reviewing. Is there a reason? If I'm doing something wrong, or something in the story that you don't like, please tell me! I'm never going to get any better at writing unless people give me pointers, so please review.

**I also want to break 100 reviews by Chapter 14, and if I do, I promise you all big rewards. Of the JohnAngela sort. **I've got a scene in mind, which will end up in this fic eventually, but if you help me break 100, it'll turn up earlier. Sound fair?

Sorry…I'm such a review whore. Well, not really, but I am very competitive, even if only with myself, and I really want to beat the 94 reviews for 14 chapters of my other, now completed fic. I'm really sad aren't I? The answer is yes by the way, but still, I really do promise you major rewards if I break 100.

Sorry if I'm ranting and being obsessive, but that's just the way I am…be sorry for my family, they've got to live with it 24/7!

Oh…there's a Metallica reference in this chapter. Big snaps if you get it. And a Hellblazer reference. Even bigger snaps if you get that. I also ripped off the original script a lot here. So sue me. I'm already ripping off the whole movie…;)

With that in mind, read, enjoy and review! (In that order preferably…)

* * *

**Chapter XI: Games**

He could feel its presence, and he knew that it could feel him. It was out there, somewhere, waiting in the shadows. Waiting for him? Or for a victim? He couldn't tell. But he knew that it would be prepared for him. He would have to have a plan.

Constantine's head started to throb, and he knew it wasn't just because of the liquor. He couldn't help replaying the whole gruesome scene with Angela in his head, and though he tried to convince himself that it was her fault for getting involved with him in the first place, he knew, somewhere deep inside of him, that it was all his fault. As usual.

Shit, he wanted a cigarette right then. It was part of the Constantine persona – the fuck 'em all and no regrets part of him that made him so good at what he did. With a gun in on hand and a cigarette in the other – wasn't that what made him who he was? The carefree Constantine who could save the world half out of his skull. Wasn't that part of the life he used to lead? Wasn't that part of the game?

Resolutely, he found himself a stick of nicotine gum in the pockets of his jacket – it obviously had been abandoned and forgotten for some time, but so what? It wasn't like it had been chewed before. Within moments the gum took on the taste of the whiskey that still clung to his taste buds, strong and fiery, like liquefied ashes. And between the rhythmic chewing of the gum and the regular echoes of his footsteps, he found that he was able to think a little better.

Everyone that came into contact with him died. It was par for the course now. It was just what happened. He was John Constantine, a walking fuck up. Everything that could go wrong would go wrong, and usually that involved some poor innocent getting royally screwed.

So he could kid himself into thinking that being cruel to Angela was for her protection. That it was all necessary, and that she would understand if she knew more about his history, and what happened to those he befriended.

Yeah right. He didn't even buy that.

He was used to people thinking that he was a bastard. It was a survival mechanism. The best way to avoid being noticed was to be loud and obnoxious. It didn't bother him. But somehow, when he thought of Angela despising him like that, like all the others, a muscle tightened in his chest.

Inwardly, he groaned. This was all way too complicated, and for once in his life he didn't have any way to deal with it.

His left arm was starting to ache from toting the Holy Shotgun around, but he couldn't swap arms. His left arm was the one to the wall here, and it would become way too obvious to any passer-by that way.

In fact, where were the people? This was LA, for Christ's sake. It wasn't exactly late – maybe eight o'clock at latest – but come on, there had to people around somewhere. Unless the demon was in this area. Though most people would swear on whatever they held most dear that there were no such things as demons or half-breeds or hell, but on some unconscious level, they knew. If there was a demon or some form of demonic influence in the area, people would instinctively avoid it. They wouldn't even be aware of it. It was like God's gift to humanity – a warning system that you're never quite sure is on.

His psychic senses prickled, and his grip tightened instinctively on the Holy Shotgun. It was close, that much he knew.

He took another few steps, nothing changing in his demeanour except his fingers slowly tightening on the Holy Shotgun. Suddenly, without warning, the demon sprang out from the shadows.

He got one good shot at it with the Holy Shotgun, but the demon was too nimble. It partially climbed up the wall, looping in a semicircle to avoid the bullet, and flung itself down onto the level floor, crawling on four legs like some sort of mad animal. Emphasis on mad.

Pumping the shotgun again, he held it at the ready, waiting for a good shot. Bizarrely, the demon wasn't trying to rip his neck off and shit down his neck, as some of the more unpleasant demons were known to do. Instead, it danced away, heading towards the shadows, its gangly legs spread out like a spider's.

Using a mixture of intuition and instinct, Constantine aimed and fired the shotgun in a movement so seamless it seemed almost automated. It was a lucky shot; it caught the demon right in its torso, where its heart would be if it had one. It fell backwards, wounded, and as it stumbled he got another good shot, this time right at the point where skull and neck vertebrae met. The demon lay on the ground, shuddered once, and then went entirely still.

John swore violently, almost involuntarily, as he stared down at the demon's body, which was rapidly decomposing into dust and was half hidden in the shadows. This was bizarre – okay, he'd thankfully never had to encounter any demons before on this plane, but even through the barrier of a possessed victim, they were eager to fight. Cocky little bastards. But this had been different. It had been running. Almost as though it was tempting him to follow it. Constantine had sensed it then, as though this simple realisation had opened him onto the demon's wavelength. He had felt the demon's need for the chase, rather than the hunt, as though it was a dog that wanted to play a game with its master.

Thank God he'd got it before it could get away. He wasn't usually the type to praise God for this sort of thing – God had been the one who'd given him this gift and curse – but this was different. He'd never had to face down one of those things before on this plane. Why had this one suddenly been able to cross over?

His head aching, he forced himself to cast out his senses, not forcefully enough for anyone else to sense what he was doing, but not faintly enough so that he could miss something.

His psychic powers weren't half as strong as…others he could mention (dammit, why did everything always come back to her?), but he could just feel another sense around him. Not as openly evil and otherworldly as the demon, it felt more human, and its intentions were veiled. Great. A half-breed. But half-breeds he could deal with. They were, comparatively, Demons were definitely a sign of serious shit.

As far as he could tell, the half-breed wasn't doing anything. It almost seemed to be waiting for him to make the first move. _Fuck off_ was his first thought. He was no idiot, and going after that half-breed when he knew nothing about it or why it was even there seemed remarkably similar to suicide, and he wasn't going down that road again.

If him following it was what it wanted, well then, it wasn't going to get it. He'd have to try later, when he had a chance of catching it unawares. If it was truly after him, or connected to the demon, it would turn up again, of that he was sure.

"Okay, plan B" he said to no-one in particular. Subtly using his psychic senses as a sort of radar, he moved towards Midnite's, not that far away, and tried to pick up the demon's presence. As said, his psychic powers weren't that strong, but he would be able to sense this half-breed approaching if he kept this sort of guard up.

He stopped being able to feel it about a block away from Midnite's. He didn't know what it was up to, but he knew he'd feel better once it was banished back to its own plane. Then, maybe, this guilty feeling would leave.

"Rat on a ball" he said to the bouncer at the club, who let him in immediately. It wasn't psychic ability really that got him in – okay, that was part of it. But a lot of it was to do with the fact that he'd been coming to this place for years, and he'd developed a sort of affinity for the cards. That always made it easier. And after knocking out the bouncer last time he was here, it was sort of a given that he'd probably find it easier to get in than usual.

As always, Midnite's was full of half-breeds, both angelic and demonic, and there were a few humans there as well, psychics and exorcists mainly. Loud music was piped out of nowhere, and the lights were dimmed down to a smoky faintness, almost as though it was trying to hide the unnaturalness of what this place was. Though Midnite had sworn the Oath of Neutrality, and he was truly neutral, even he knew that there was nothing natural about angels and demons mixing and mingling. Everywhere Constantine looked, he could see evidence of just this. Out of the corner of one eye he could see an angel's halo caught on the horns of the devil dancing with him. Sharp gold and vicious red pinpoints in the dark stared out at him from everywhere, their bodies fading into the shadows, but their eyes standing out, following him.

Ignoring them, John made his way to the back room. Midnite's office. The door was like a combination of a steel wall and a padded cell, reflecting all the lights in the club and distorting them.

John stared at the door, eye to eye, knowing that the only was to get in was to let the door 'scan' you. One of Midnite's little voodoo tricks, designed to keep those he didn't want to see away. At varying points in their friendship, John had ended up on the other side.

Nothing happened. Great, just what he needed. "Midnite, come on! Do I have to huff and puff here?"

For a minute, still, nothing happened, but eventually, almost reluctantly, the door opened to let him in.

As always, Midnite's back room smelt of pungent cigar smoke, so strong that it could make your eyes water at first. It was already irritating John, making him remember the cigarettes that were out of his reach now. At least, if he wanted to live long enough to get to Heaven.

He could hear Midnite now, chanting through the smoke and gloom.

"Et separatur a plasmate tuo, ut num quam laedatur amorsu antiqui serpentes…"

John moved forwards, not sitting down though, even though there was a chair right opposite Midnite. It was dangerous to sit down in front of Midnite uninvited.

"Deciding which colour to paint this place again?" he asked.

"John" Midnite said smoothly, looking up from his orrery. It was a golden orb, labelled _Creator_, with rods sticking out of it from every angle, labelled with words like _Astral_, _Iconic_, _Material_. Names of different planes of existence. Every rod had a deceptively small relic that hung off it, that was clearly dripped in power to anyone who gave enough of a shit to notice.

"That thing's never going to balance you know" John said, just to piss him off.

"But it always does. We must simply see how it balances" Midnite said, sounding serene, almost casual, though Constantine knew he never really was. "Have you come here to peddle more forgeries?"

John let the slur pass. "Today, a demon punched its way through a person. Onto our plane. Here"

"That is impossible"

"Do you really think I'd make this up?"

Midnite's small snort and almost dignified puff on the cigar told him that he clearly believed that he would.

"So a demon is running around on our plane?" he asked, his tone serious even though his posture was deceptively casual.

John shook his head. "Not any more" He hefted the Holy Shotgun, just to make his point.

"So why are you here John?" Midnite asked, not looking at him, but at the orrery.

"Information" he replied. "This isn't natural"

Midnite held out his hands in a shrug-like gesture. "What would I know John? I am Neutral. I do not seek out the information of either side"

John snorted, almost laughing. "You're a bartender. You must have heard something"

Midnite shook his head. "Maybe there is nothing to hear, John"

He chose to ignore this. "Now, where's the chair?"

"The chair?" Midnite looked, for once, surprised.

"The delicate little number from Sing Sing?"

Midnite just stared at him.

"It's a fine line that separates a hero from a fool. And I thought your little jaunt last time had cured you of wanting to use the chair again"

"I'll take my chances"

"And taint my establishment with your blood? I don't think so"

"Midnite–" John began to protest. Midnite was right, he knew that. And he didn't expect Midnite to let him use it anyway. Hell, he'd only weakened last time because of the possibility of Earth becoming another part of Hell. But it was always worth a try.

"You know what that device can do to the ill-equipped–"

"Midnite–"

"–and even in your most glorious days your brain was never your most powerful attribute–"

John's patience ran out. "Where the hell is the chair, you dumb shit!"

Midnite stood up instantly, his body inflating past its already generous height. John knew that he went too far.

"Forget it" he said, turning round and heading for the door. "Thanks for the tremendous help" he added sarcastically, just before he shut the door behind him

He was about to leave Midnite's, in a fouler mood than when he had walked in, when he felt a feather touch on his shoulder, and heard a voice behind him. It was silvery and clear, almost airy, but most importantly, very familiar.

"John. Miss me much?"

* * *

If anyone gets who that is, I will be bloody impressed. It's not a movie character, and you'd have to be a big Hellblazer fan to get it. If anyone does…well, I don't quite know what I'll do, but I'll certainly be pretty gobsmacked.

Most of that John-Midnite exchange from the original script. It's so cool, I wish they'd left it in.

Remember – the sooner you get me past 100, the sooner we get more JohnAngela fluff!

Please review!


	12. Chapter XII: Self Control

**Angelfirenze** – Happy (belated) birthday! (gives birthday cake with Constantine-shaped candles). Anymore ideas on the House/Constantine crossover?

**Evelyn Valerious** – Thank you! I love writing Midnite and John, even though not much of that dialogue was my own. I think I'm going to have to put another MidniteJohn argument in there somewhere…Thanks for reviewing!

**Jonic Recheio** – Good guess, but it's not Ellie. Close, though. I'm really glad you like my fic, thanks for reviewing!

**DesertFlowerSimion** – Don't worry, I'd be totally and utterly gobsmacked if anyone got it. It broke my heart writing it, trust me! Must…write…fluff! Thanks for reviewing!

**Divamercury** – I hope this is soon enough! Thanks for reviewing!

**Ithilwen6 **– I can't wait to write more fluff. I think I'm getting withdrawal! It's not Ellie, actually, but she will be back, never fear!

**fanficgeek** – Yep, that counts ;) Don't worry, I know very well the trials of the real world (crosses self). It's depressing about the sequel, but at least we can be more inventive in fiction. And if this fic goes well, I'll do a sequel to this as well, so I'll make sure there's some Constantine stuff around for a while, don't worry! Thanks for reviewing!

**Lady Hawke** – Thanks! I love knowing that I'm getting John and Angela down- it really haunts me if I feel that they're being out of character. I always kinda liked the idea that John was a bit of a fugitive, it made the relationship between him and Angela more interesting. Thanks for reviewing!

**scarstar** – Rambling is good! I think my one-liners are getting more frequent – I use them way too much in real life, that's probably why ;) Thanks for reviewing!

**ColorXMeXFake** – Love the new handle by the way! The Metallica reference was the 'fuck 'em all and no regrets' bit, I think that's from St Anger. I adore Metallica too, that's probably how it ended up in there ;) Thanks for reviewing!

**Kyoko Kasshu Minamino** – I hope I'm updating soon enough! Thanks for reviewing!

**Lovely** – Yay, three reviews! I was actually pretty bitchy in my AN last chapter, so I'm the one who should be apologising. I'm such a stupidly competitive person…(hits self on head). Thank you so much for reviewing three times! That totally made my day. I have such a phobia of having my neck touched because I've got a massive scar or birthmark thing across my throat and I'm way too conscious about it. It was kind of an achievement for me, being able to write about throat slashings without barfing ;) Ah, and you've rumbled me on the holy water thing…my only excuse is that he's psychic, so he might have known that way. But that was a total mistake on my part. Constantine makes me laugh a lot actually, because he's so blind to what he feels for Angela. You might be onto something with the whole Ellie thing…can't say anymore than that! Anyway, thanks for reviewing, and I can't wait to hear from you again! (gives Constantine-shaped cookies).

Apologies! I meant to upload this yesterday, but the site was doing something funny, and it wouldn't let me. I've been trying for about26 hours. Still, better late than never, right?

You guys are fantastic. Between this chapter and the last, you've given me 15 reviews, which is totally outstanding. I've been having a pretty shitty few weeks, and you have all helped me get through it. So thank you big time (hands out cookies and Constantine posters). If you continue like this, we'll be at 100 soon and I can give you the fluff. Believe me, I can't wait to write it ;)

Quite a few people thought that Mystery Person at the end of chapter 11 was Ellie. It wasn't actually, but good guess. Ellie will be back, don't worry. I like Ellie too much to keep her out of this for too long :)

Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter XII: Self Control**

Angela made it back to her apartment incident-free, which was surprising, since she felt like putting her fist through a wall. She'd forced herself to stay calm whilst driving – she'd spent too long as a cop to not know the results of driving whilst distracted, which were usually road salsa – but now, as she wandered up the stairs to her small, comfortable apartment, she let her thoughts drift. The more she let them drift, the more the dull, thumping pain in her temple started to intensify.

She opened the door – she had enough self control to not slam it, even though that was exactly how she felt at that moment. Her cat ran up to greet her, winding his way around her ankles in such a sycophantic way that Angela knew that he wanted food. This was stuff she could deal with. Coming home to her apartment, fixing herself something to eat, feeding the cat. Normal things. This was how it was meant to be. Nice, simple normal things that she could control.

Angela dropped her bag and pulled her hair out of its bun, loosening it from its constraining style. Fuck the professional in her, fuck the restrained, proficient, always in control cop. What was the good of having a perfect career and unblemished CV if she couldn't control the rest of her life?

She banged the can of cat food onto the countertop with more force than she had meant to. She could see her cat's ears flicker back as a reaction to the loud sound, and she instantly felt sorry. She fed the cat, stroking his steel grey fur and feeling the strong bones underneath. After that, she let herself move away, her responsibilities over. She could now let herself free, and let herself think and analyse and reflect on what had happened this evening in a very police-like, businesslike way.

Only now, she didn't want to. She'd rather sit back and not think about it. But a little part of her knew that she had to, now or later. She'd have to get it over with at some point.

Angela looked around her apartment. Not much, only five rooms. A kitchen, a lounge that somehow became an all-purpose living area, a bathroom, and two bedrooms. One she never went into any more. In the years since she'd been back from college, back in LA, no matter where she lived, there always had to be room for Isabel. Because that was just what happened. They were twins, and they had no-one else. It was all up to Angela to sort out where her sister went, what she did, and when she went back to the institution. It was like some sort of sick pattern. Izzy went into the institution, maybe for two or three weeks, and then she'd improve. She'd come home with Angela, maybe for another two or three weeks, and she'd steadily climb downhill. Until she had to go back. And then it all began again, a hideous charade so perfectly timed that she could practically set her clock to it.

It was for that reason that she had gotten Duck. Izzy loved cats. Ever since they were younger, she had always made friends with all the cats in the neighbourhood. And for some reason they all loved her too, a cat meeting her every time she left the house, like it was divinely orchestrated. So Angela had got Duck, to try and please her. And it had worked, for the most part. Sometimes though, Isabel would stare at the cat, eye to eye, for hours, as though she could see something in its eyes that Angela couldn't. As though there was some knowledge there that Angela would never be privy to.

Angela wandered around aimlessly for a while, not knowing what to do or what to think. Everywhere she looked, she just seemed to be reminded of how lonely she was. The one constant in her life had always been Isabel, even though she hadn't always been the most reliable person. And now she was gone, and had left her alone in the darkness. It was just so typical, just so typical of her life that everything had to go wrong at once.

And just now, someone she thought she could just about rely on, had decided to let her down.

Fuck Constantine, fuck fuck fuck. Her headache was threatening to explode, colouring her head with pain, and suddenly now, she was replaying the whole evening.

_Oh fuck fuck fuck…_

Giving in, Angela sat down in a chair, curling herself into a ball by bringing her knees up towards herself, pulling them in with her arms like she did when she was a kid.

She didn't know why this hurt so much. She knew from day one that the man was an ass. She'd had proof of that when he'd sent her packing two minutes after first meeting her.

But at the same time, he'd come after her later. He'd saved her life, for Christ's sake. He'd killed himself and had been willing to go to Hell so that her sister could go to Heaven. Somehow, remembering all of that made her want to cry.

This was why she didn't open herself up to people. To most of the people she was just utterly professional and completely without feelings. She knew the names they had for her at the precinct, and she didn't care. It was all simpler that way. Because, as her parents and Izzy had proved, people always left. It was simpler

So why was it that, just when she had felt like she could trust someone, everything had gone wrong?

Letting herself cry quietly, she rested one hot cheek on her knee, suddenly feeling very young and very naïve. She was used to feeling in control – it was what her job was all about. Staying in control so that other people would stay safe. But now it felt like she was breaking apart. Everything was shattering, and she didn't have a way to make it stop.

Duck padded silently over to her, as if investigating what was wrong in his domain. As he stared up at her, she stared back, green gold with a slit for a pupil meeting grey green, shining wetly with silent tears.

She could feel herself sinking, going in deeper than she thought was possible. At first she thought that she was controlling it, that she was guiding the descent. But then she realised that she was slipping, falling down the slippery slope that led straight down to Hell.

_Fire danced across the back of her neck, and something sharp pricked her palm. Razor-sharp knives hung over her, their tips just grazing her skin. It was an illusion, she knew that. But the deep, rolling feeling in her gut told her that this was so much more than an illusion. _

_The sky was a deep, acidic colour, like the whole atmosphere was ill. Particles of dust and rust flew through the air, cutting her flesh, stinging her skin. Every part of her hurt, as though it couldn't physically stand being in hell. _

_Things like insects with fiery wings fluttered across her face, brushing her cheeks and burning her skin. Everything around her felt dead, or dying, but she knew that the screams around her, the never-ending screams, were screams of someone about to die. They were the screams of someone who had been tortured for what felt like thousands of years, and would be tortured for a thousand more. _

_She recognised this place. It was what the view from her apartment building would look like, if a nuclear bomb had been dropped on Los Angeles. The city had become one open, festering sore. She could see places she'd worked, places she'd shopped, eaten, and all of them were diseased and collapsed. It was as though millions of years of decay had caught up with the city within one fraction of a second. _

_The sounds of thousands of souls in torment played across her ears like badly tuned violins. It was as though the sounds screeched through the air at a frequency she didn't think that she should be able to hear, but it vibrated through her bones like an electric shock. _

A sudden sound brought her back, through the invisible partition between one plane and the next. Angela, though disoriented, flipped around, knocking her cat off of her lap with a yowl. All of her senses prickled, and combined with her psychic skills and her cop's intuition, she could tell instantly that something was not right. Behind her Duck paced, his fur on end, and yowled in a wild and discordant way.

Shadows flittered around the windows, dark and ominous, moving faster than she thought possible, accompanied by the leathery sound of wings. What she assumed to be talons scraped across the window, like fingernails on a chalkboard.

Angela's cop instinct won out for a moment, and her hands instantly ached for her gun. However, her other instincts overcame it. What use was her gun against demons or half-breeds?

The only items she could think of that would offer her any sort of protection were the cold metal amulet around her neck and the large wooden cross that hung on her wall. She could feel the pendant against her skin, just below her collarbone, and she could clearly see the cross on the wall. Almost instinctively, thirty years of Catholic faith sunk into her body, the prayer sprung to her tongue.

"_In nomine Patris et Filis et spirtus sanctii…"_ Her tongue flew over the familiar words easily, and each time she said them, so recognizable, so comforting, a little knot of tension released within her chest. Her voice grew stronger, and the sounds of the demons grew fainter and fainter. A white light seemed to surround her like a bubble, and she could feel it growing in radiance as she chanted the familiar prayer.

Finally, there was no noise, except for her own rapidly fading voice chanting the time-honoured prayer. The growing stillness felt ominous, as though this silence was only temporary. Still Angela stared at the cross on the wall, her lips moving in time with the ancient words even though no sounds were coming out of her mouth. The sight of the familiar, simple cross on the wall was comforting, and she felt a sense of calm within her, banishing the fear that had surged through her veins.

Still, though, she could feel a sense of unease at the silence around her. This wasn't right. She couldn't stay here. Not if she could be sure of her safety.

A thought sprang up in her mind, a thought she couldn't ignore – _maybe she should go back to…?_

No. She couldn't. She wouldn't. She wouldn't go back to see Constantine. She would have to protect herself.

Another idea struck her, and she accepted that one as the saner of the two. Grabbing her purse, she darted out of the door, leaving the lights on. For some reason, it felt safer that way.

Outside, it was raining, and Angela regretted not bringing a coat. She was only wearing her work clothes, a black skirt and jacket with a white shirt, and the rain soaked through them. Rain dripped through her loose hair to fall down her back, between her shirt collar and her skin, but she barely noticed.

She knew exactly where she was going, and though she longed to run there, run towards the safety it represented, she forced herself to walk and blend in with the crowds of people, even though she knew she didn't on the inside. She could See in a way that they would never be able to, and she'd been to Hell and back. She was tainted. She'd seen the darkness of Hell, and walked through the diseased heart of that plane. She'd felt the antichrist's son inside her own body. She would never feel normal, or completely pure, again.

The church rose before her, dark and imposing. Through the rain and darkness, lit from underneath by the dim streetlights and the neon signs of the various shops and bars beside it, it looked strange and gothic.

But still, it exuded protection. Safety. Shelter. And if any building was capable of protecting her, this one was.

Angela walked down the church aisle, between the empty pews. The massive golden structure behind the altar rose up to the ceiling, at its centre a picture of Christ on the cross. Her gaze went instantly to the solider painted behind him, holding up a spear. The Spear of Destiny. Her family had been coming her since she was little, but somehow she'd never seen that little detail.

Her footsteps rang out on the marble floor, and she instantly felt conspicuous. It was too open. She had to feel secure, her cop instinct was too powerful to let her feel comfortable in such an open, empty space. She ducked into one of the confessional booths, the familiar smells of beeswax and incense greeting her. A rustle on the other side of the booth told her that the priest was on the other side, waiting expectantly.

Was it a sin to See? Was it a sin to know what lay on either side of the this plane? Maybe. Maybe not. But Angela wasn't about to take any chances. For some reason, she felt a darkness on her soul, a darkness she couldn't explain.

Her lips moved with difficulty, as though they were resisting having to form the words.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned…"

* * *

Please review! 


	13. Chapter XIII: Enigma

**Ankou **– Thanks for reviewing! I will definitely continue updating, I'm having way too much fun writing this…

**Angelfirenze **– Yep, I got your message. The fic is coming along, I promise. I'm just so tired at the moment…but yep, it's coming along. I really want to write Chase as the angel, I can just totally see him as an angel ;)

**Jon'ic Recheio** – You find out who she is in this chapter, I promise…thanks for reviewing!

**Issay** – Thanks! I love writing Angela, and it's really good to know that I'm getting her in character. Thanks for reviewing!

**Ithilwen6** – Thanks for reviewing! Don't worry, I got you ;) I hope I'll write Ellie well. And what Angela confessed is a subject for next chapter…did you get my email by the way?

**Evelyn Valerious** – Yeah, I've nicknamed my cat Duck. It's…strange, especially because we have ducks in our garden sometimes. My parents think I'm nuts…is it your birthday? Yay! Happy birthday! Then the next chapter's fluff will be a (belated) birthday present (hugs). Thanks for reviewing!

**scarstar** – Thanks! (hugs) Constantine shaped cookies both look and taste good…I really need to experiment with making them…could result in many small fires at my house ;) Thanks for reviewing!

**Lovely** – Fluff is on its way, I promise! And because I'm putting both Angela and John through so much, the fluff will be very fluffy ;) I think that's what attracted me to the pairing, the fact that they're both damaged, and neither of them can see what's right in front of them…thanks for reviewing!

**Kyoko Kasshu Minamino** – Thanks! The updates will certainly keep coming, because I'm enjoying this too much not to continue ;) Thanks for reviewing!

**Lady Hawke** – You're making me blush! Thanks for reviewing!

**If you get me past 100 reviews on this chapter, there will be big fluff rewards next chapter. **

Just in case anyone's forgotten… ;) Thank you all so much for reviewing, it means so much to me. You guys really are fantastic.

It's really late, so there may be some massive mistakes in this chapter. But frankly, I am so tired that I can't care. It's tomorrow's problem…

This chapter also sets up a lot of plot and stuff, so read it with an open mind, and give me your opinions on Mercury. I love her, she's such a fun character to write…

Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter XIII: Enigma**

The woman was small, and fragile looking. Her silvery-blonde hair fell down her shoulders, just brushing the collar of her jacket. Under the blood red lights and dark shadows of Midnite's, the sharp angles of her face became more obvious, her high cheekbones shading her eyes. But her eyes themselves were curiously visible, like luminous stars.

"Mercury." It was a good name for her. Quicksilver, and always in motion. Even though she was sitting still, she still carried a sense of movement with her, like an aura.

"Remember me?"

"How could I forget?" John said, with a rueful smile. He liked Mercury. She was one of the few people in his life who'd turned up and walked away from him without getting killed. Then again, it kind of helped that she herself was a psychic, and a damn powerful one at that. That was how they'd met – he'd been in England, and he'd helped her get to grips with her power. That felt like such a long time ago now.

"You ought to come back to England more often. It's not as much fun now that you're in LA," she said, her clipped British accent surfacing more as she spoke. When you travelled as much as she did, being able to mask an accent was very useful.

"What are you up to nowadays?"

Mercury shrugged. "Earning my keep. Turns out there's more demand for translators in dead languages than I thought." After a beat, she continued, with a shrewd look. "Last thing I heard, you were on your way down," she said, her statement heavy with meaning and clearly asking him to elaborate.

John shrugged. "Pissing off Lucifer and lung cancer. Not a good combination."

"Have you finally given up?" Mercury asked, meaning the cigarettes.

"Yeah. Surprising what the thought of going to Hell does for your motivation," he replied sarcastically. "You?"

If it was true that all those who could See had a vice or two to balance out the scales, Mercury's was surprisingly arcane. Getting high on magic and the resulting power trip was more her thing. A better high than alcohol or cigarettes or any other cocktail of drugs, but it would lead to a shorter lifespan. Mercury looked deceptively youthful, but some of the shit she'd done to herself had definitely taken its toll on her, whether it was obvious or not.

"Trying," she admitted. There was a pause between them. Too much had passed between them for it to be truly awkward, but still, a little addiction between friends was still uncomfortable.

"Who's still about?" she asked, changing the subject. Meaning, who's the latest in a long row of coffins.

"Me. Midnite." Pause. He didn't have to say anything else.

"Shit…" Mercury whispered, almost under her breath. "I know what they say about hazardous professions and all, but come on, this is getting ridiculous."

"You're telling me."

"Hennessey? Beeman?"

"Dead," he said simply.

"What about Nico?" she asked, naming yet another exorcist in a very long line of the dead.

"Pissed off a half-breed in San Francisco. Last thing I heard, his soul was being served up as lunch," John said, almost emotionlessly, not because he didn't care, but because this was just another death. There were too many of them in his chosen profession. Partly because exorcism was like walking between the demons and their victims and lying down in front of them to try and stop them, i.e., useless.

"Jesus…"

"Who's still alive in London, then?"

Mercury started to tick people off on her fingers. "Map – the insane bastard's still hanging about the King's Cross tube station. Clarice is still running that mad club for the ghosts who can't be arsed to move on yet. Nigel, Chalice, Nathan…" Looking up, she shrugged, and almost too casually took another sip of her drink. "To tell you the truth, I'm not sure," she admitted. "I haven't been back to London for a while now. There was a possession that got a bit…messy, so the police have been sniffing around for a while."

"Is that why you're here?" he asked. "Hiding out?"

"Sort of," Mercury explained. "Been doing a bit of research here. I was trying to talk to Midnite about it. Thought he might know something about it."

"About what?" It was good to see Mercury again and everything, but she was useless at getting to the point.

"Any information he has on the Kua I'ipa."

"The Shadow Dog. That's a myth," he said flatly. Mercury had a talent for the esoteric, but chasing after age-old ghosts of legends was a new development.

Mercury shrugged. "That's what I thought. But – you know I said I was translating? Well, I dug something up. Something that shouldn't have left the Vatican libraries. How it came to be in my bloody possession, I don't know. But everyone's got something to say on it. Nostradamus especially, but every half-baked seer puts some reference to it in there, even if it's just a mention. It's getting bigger all the time."

"What do these records say?" John asked, suddenly very intrigued. Simply from experience, he probably knows Mercury the best, and he can tell that she's both interested and a little worried.

Mercury suddenly looked around. The intense magic and power and sheer multitude of the people in Midnite's was overwhelming, and it probably wasn't the best place to have a talk like this.

"Let's go…" she suggested quietly, picking up her small black bag that always travelled with it. John knew what was in it – a small crucifix, an antique collection of saints' medals, a Bible and what looked like a pepper spray, except for the fact that it was filled with holy water. Her survival kit, she called it. It might have been over-defensive, but with a power like hers, a power that lit her up like a blazing beacon – it made her a target. That was part of the reason she was always travelling, always moving, like her namesake.

The contrast between inside Midnite's and outside it was stunning. Outside, it was cold and still, almost frozen, whereas inside it was warm and constantly shifting. Everyone was close, too close, and always moving. Now, even though it was hardly that late and this was LA, for Christ's sake, it was surprisingly quiet and tranquil.

"The records say that whenever the Shadow Dog, the Kua I'ipa is sighted, death and destruction follow," Mercury said finally. "It's almost like a sign of the apocalypse."

"And you've seen it."

Mercury shook her head. "Only in dreams. But–" she paused, trying to find the right words. "John – something big is going down. Something huge."

"What?" Inwardly, though he didn't like to admit it, he was worrying about her. He hadn't seen her in like half a decade, but he still knew that something had to be wrong for her to make a prediction as huge as this.

Mercury met his gaze squarely, knowing full well what he was thinking. "It's toxic, John," she said softly but firmly. "Can't you sense it? Something's wrong with this city. Something sick. Anything big happened here recently?"

John almost laughed bitterly. "Just the son of the Devil trying to take over this plane. Not much. Oh, and the Devil coming up here to sort it all out. No, not much at all."

"Jesus…" Mercury's eyes, balancing between ice blue and silver grey, were wide open in surprise. The florescent orange street lighting made her pale, angular face seemed sick and garish, like a kid's cheap, tacky Halloween costume.

"You didn't know." He managed – barely – to keep the surprise out of that statement. A psychic as strong as Mercury should have been able to sense a disruption on that scale, and the rent between the planes like that would have registered on her psychic scale, no matter where she was.

"Not where I was." John looked up at the statement. Mercury was smiling. "Telepathy – great perk of being able to See," she said, knowing full well that Constantine couldn't – it took a lot of power, more than most had. Hearing an occasional thought was an occupational hazard of being able to See, but controlled, powerful telepathy was a gift reserved for only the most powerful of psychic. "I was in Eden."

"Eden." He had to repeat the word, just to make sure he'd heard right. "You're out of your mind."

"True, but it was necessary," she explained.

"How did you even get back in?" he asked, incredulous. "I thought there'd be orders to shoot you on sight."

"Yeah, that was fun," she said with a smile. The last time she and John had been to Eden, or at least the closest site to it, the half-breed angels claiming to be descendants of Cain who were waiting for God's orders were less than happy to see them, and even less happy to let them go with all of their limbs after what happened. "I could barely talk to them. Long memories, those guys. Can't get what they're so worried about."

"Yeah right. It doesn't have anything to do with the Testament of Nephilim which we stole?"

"I don't remember stealing it. I think that was all you. And anyway, we did a good deed – the bastard thing was far too dangerous."

"Justify it any way you want," he said to her with a sardonic edge on the words. "I seem to remember having this argument before." Mercury smiled, looking even younger than she already did. It was a surprise, seeing such an ordinary thing as a smile on her enigmatic features. "I guess nothing's changed."

"Really?" she asked, honest surprise in her voice. "Yeah, I suppose you're right." She tilted her head to one side, thinking about it. "Though I guess some things have changed. You're not the same Constantine who couldn't live without a cigarette for five minutes."

"Thanks." He said this just sarcastically enough so that she could take it as a typical, ironic joke, when actually what he was feeling was the knife-like pain in his lungs and the burning at the back of his throat which signified the craving in his body. His mind could hold out and remain virtuous, but his body was definitely screaming for some nicotine.

"Anything else changed?" she asked him, a grin slowly spreading across her face. "Found yourself a girl who can stand you for more than five minutes yet?"

"Very funny." Though the retort was typically Constantine, something about the air with which he said it wasn't. Curious, Mercury sent out thin tendrils, her psychic senses quietly and unobtrusively trying to probe Constantine's mind. It was delicate, and difficult, especially because she didn't want him to notice, but she just found it. Just a few memories, but enough to figure out what had happened.

"John." She turned his head towards her, so that they were looking directly at one another. "Go to her."

John pulled his head away from her hand, and changed direction, so that he couldn't see her. Considering that she was about ten inches shorter than him, it was surprisingly easy. Mercury however, would not be deterred.

"You're an idiot, and you always have been, so that's not going to change," she said, perfectly sincerely. "And rather than continue down this path of self-destruction and stupidity, you might want to try a different approach."

"Mercury–"

"Don't forget, John, I've known you a long time," she said, in the same tone, simple and immaculate. "What is it, sixteen years? So take some advice from a very old friend. Go, and sort all of this out."

John ached to bite back with one of the scathing, sarcastic retorts that he was so good at, but he couldn't, because he knew, even though he wasn't prepared to admit it to her, that she was right. She had an unnerving tendency to hit the nail on the head in a really annoying way.

"I'm in LA for another few days. You know how to find me," she said, before blending into the shadows, in the way that she did so well. It was a long running joke that she was crap at goodbyes.

John paused for a second, breathing in the frigid night air. Just for a second. And then, just like that, he knew exactly what he had to do. What he was going to do.

He turned around, and started walking in the other direction. Towards Angela's apartment.

* * *

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